Firsts
by Raven'sDesk221b
Summary: Nothing really changes when Sherlock and John finally get together; well, except for the obvious.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson sat in his arm chair and watched his flatmate pace back and forth across their living room. They had spent the past two days chasing down a con-artist and had successfully cornered him in an ally less than two hours earlier. It had been a very satisfactory end to the case, but the calm that John usually expected after such a case hadn't come. If anything, Sherlock was even more agitated than he had been before.

Almost as soon as they had returned to Baker Street he had begun pacing furiously, gesticulating wildly and mumbling incoherently to himself the entire time Originally, John had just chalked it up to Sherlock being Sherlock, but that had been over an hour before and Sherlock only seemed to be getting worse, which was actually starting to worry the doctor.

The detective became more and more frantic until, finally, he stopped short, "Tea. I think I'll make some tea. How about you, John? Would you like some tea?"

The doctor blinked a few times before slowly nodding, "Yes, tea sounds good." Sherlock gave him a curt nod before walking determinedly into the kitchen. John was still for a moment before getting up and following his flatmate. He was genuinely concerned for his friend – Sherlock never made tea, and when coupled with the manic pacing and mutterings of only a few moments prior, the doctor in John couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't signaling some sort of psychotic break.

John leaned against the door frame and quietly watched Sherlock prepare them both tea. When he finished, Sherlock handed John his mug and they stood silently in the kitchen, facing each other and not drinking their tea. After a few moments Sherlock seemed to come to some sort of decision. He cleared his throat and walked purposefully over to John, taking his mug and setting it aside. John looked expectantly up at him, wondering what the hell his crazy flatmate was up to now. Looking back on that moment, John would say that he should have seen it coming. The truth is that his subconscious really had seen it coming; John had just told his subconscious to shut up when it came to Holmes so often that it no longer bothered to make its opinions known concerning the man.

Sherlock licked his lips nervously – an emotion that went unrecognized because John had never once in the entire year that he had lived with Sherlock seen his friend experience it – before steeling himself against his decision, taking his flatmate firmly by the shoulders and bringing his lips down to meet John's. The kiss was strong and determined, yet somehow soft and vulnerable at the same time.

John's brain seemed to completely shut down. He had known for a long time that his feelings for Sherlock weren't strictly platonic, or heterosexual for that matter, but it wasn't until that moment that he had allowed himself even a small sliver of hope that his feelings might be reciprocated. John's mouth opened – partly in surprise, partly in something else. Sherlock took the opportunity to hesitantly slip his tongue into his friend's mouth. The tongue on tongue contact jolted some life back into John's frazzled brain, and he realized that he had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on, which actually scared the hell out of him.

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him back, "Sherlock what… what are you doing?" His voice was softer than he wanted it to be, and his heart was pounding more than he cared to admit, but he managed to keep his expression blank.

Sherlock blinked a few times before muttering something unintelligible and running from the room. John heard the front door slam and he sighed, taking a drink of his cooling tea. It actually tasted pretty good, _but not as good as Sherlock's mouth._ John shook his head to rid himself of that rather distracting though and as soon as his heart rate had returned to normal he went to find his wayward flatmate. Sherlock had left without his coat or shoes, so John wasn't really surprised to find him sitting on the stoop.

John sighed, "Sherlock, it's freezing out here. Why don't you come inside?" Sherlock didn't move, so John sighed again and sat down next to him. They sat in silence until John's nose began to get cold and he decided enough was enough.

John cleared his throat, "Sherlock, about what happened, you can't just do that. I'm not an experiment."

"I know you're not an experiment, John," Sherlock answered quietly, still decidedly looking away from John.

"Alright," John said with a sigh, "then why did you do it?" Sherlock was silent for a long time before answering.

"John, I-I love you, and I wanted to show you," he mumbled, his voice soft and shaky and completely un-Sherlock.

John squeezed his eyes shut, "Sherlock, please, please don't say that if you don't mean it. I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, but if you're trying to experiment or manipulate me I really need you to stop now. You are my best friend and I don't want to mess that up. So, if you don't mean that, tell me no. I'll go upstairs, come down tomorrow morning, and everything will be fine." John finished speaking and silence fell.

John was waiting patiently for Sherlock to speak, and Sherlock was trying to figure out what answer John wanted to hear. Sherlock knew what he felt, but he didn't know how John felt. And Sherlock didn't like not knowing – he wanted to know all of the variables and all of the probable outcomes before entering into any situation. Unfortunately, John was always introducing unknown variables and previously unconsidered outcomes. He wanted to ask what John's response would be if Sherlock said he was telling the truth, but he was pretty sure that that would defeat the purpose of this particular exercise.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock turned his face towards John and whispered, "I'm not lying, John. I meant what I said." John let go of a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Well good," he answered, taking Sherlock's chin in his hand, "because I love you too." He placed a gentle kiss on his lips before clearing his throat and standing up. "Come on, let's go inside. It's bloody cold out here."

Sherlock Holmes has never been the type of man to do anything halfway: be it an experiment, solving a crime, or loving a certain ex-army doctor. As soon as the door to 221B was closed behind them, Sherlock had John pressed up against the door and their lips were crashing together. John couldn't remember having ever been so thoroughly snogged in his life, and one of the few facts that John was absolutely certain of in that moment was that if it wasn't for Sherlock's body pressing him so tightly against the wood, his knees would have failed and he would have ended up on the ground. Thankfully, Sherlock showed no sign of letting him go anytime soon.

John, as so often was the case when Sherlock was involved, had no clear concept of what was going on or where exactly it was going, so he did what he normally did when Sherlock was involved – he put his trust in the madman and went along for the ride. He had never really allowed himself to consider it to be a real possibility that Sherlock would ever kiss him, let alone snog him so thoroughly, and a very happy portion of his brain was saying that he would be more than content to keep doing that forever. Another, slightly more self-aware, portion of his brain took great glee in reminding him about his healthy erection that was quickly becoming painful. Sherlock, the genius that he was, brought his hips forward and ground hard against John's groin, eliciting a moan of sheer pleasure from both men. Luckily for John, Sherlock always had a plan, and he was never shy about implementing them.

"Bed, please John, bed," Sherlock murmured, barely breaking their kiss.

"Bed, John agreed, not pulling his lips away from Sherlock's. The men pulled away from the door and stumbled through the flat. They finally ended up in Sherlock's bedroom with minimal collateral damage.

This time it was Sherlock who was pressed against the door and John – who had always prided himself on his sexual prowess – was quickly taking control of the situation. He had never been with a man before, and he knew that that should make him at least somewhat nervous, but then this was Sherlock, and he had complete faith that if he did something wrong the mad genius would tell him.

John reached up and began to slowly unbutton Sherlock's shirt, running his fingers over each piece of bare skin as it was revealed; his hands didn't shake at all, and he was rather proud of himself for that. Sherlock, on the other hand, was shaking so badly that he could barely get John's jumper over his head; John was rather proud of himself for that too. Soon enough, though, they were both stripped to the waist and John took a brief moment to admire the marble-like torso in front of him before stepping forward again and pushing their chests together as they kissed. Sherlock's breath stuttered audibly at the contact, and that only made John push even closer to him.

"John, please, John," Sherlock said, his whisper sounding suspiciously like a sob.

"What do you want from me Sherlock?" John asks, moving his kisses down to that glorious neck as he waited for an answer.

Sherlock's breathing hitched before he was able to answer in that same whisper/sob, "Anything. Anything you can give me."

In the darkness of Sherlock's bedroom John didn't feel any shame in answering with complete honesty, "Everything Sherlock. I can give you everything I have." Sherlock was proud of himself when he was able to transform the next sob-like noise into a moan.

John hooked his fingers into Sherlock's belt loops and pulled him across the room. They turned so Sherlock was walking backwards and when the back of his legs his the bed, John gently pushed him down so he was seated. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before remembering what previous partners had wanted from him in this position. He swallowed hard and fumbled with John's belt buckle as he tried to tell himself that he would like it this time, because it was John.

John chuckled and gently pushed Sherlock's hands away, "Not yet, love, I'm not quite done with you yet." He leaned down to kiss him again and Sherlock felt relieved, although he did his best to hide it.

John maneuvered them so that Sherlock was laying on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, and he was straddling his hips. The had yet to stop kissing and this time when Sherlock reached for John's belt buckle John didn't stop him, and he didn't feel the need for a pep talk this time. He wondered if that's why John didn't stop him.

John sat up and smiled down at Sherlock, "I thought you didn't do this." His tone was teasing but something darker flashed in his eyes.

Sherlock smirked at him, "I thought you were straight." He reached down and palmed John's erection to prove his point that John wasn't, in fact, straight. John groaned and ground down against the man beneath him, eliciting a reciprocating moan.

"You seem to be the exception that proves the rule," John answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock sat up and pressed his lips against John's for a breathtaking moment before whispering, "You are the exception to every rule." John grinned before kissing Sherlock again and pushing him back down against the pillows and moving his attention to Sherlock's gloriously long neck. When John started sucking on his pulse point Sherlock's breathing hitched and he was lost for a moment in pure unadulterated pleasure before he remembered that this was supposed to be a two way street. He took as deep a breath as he could muster in an attempt to center his scattered mental faculties before canting his hips up just so, causing John to moan wantonly and pause what he was doing.

John chuckled, "You know, for this not being your area, you really are very, very good at it."

Sherlock shrugged and answered honestly and without really thinking it through, "I've had practice; Cocaine is an expensive habit." Both men froze as soon the words left his mouth. John sat straight up, his eyes wide and his mind completely and utterly blank. Sherlock wasn't so lucky. His mind was stuck on a panicked loop of _'. _

After a few moments the doctor's brain kicked back into gear and he was able to read the detective's tortured inner monologue in his friend's eyes. John didn't hesitate before crashing his lips against Sherlock's, bringing the detective's thoughts to a stuttering halt. John slowly shifted the kiss into something more tender and promising before and moving back down to Sherlock's neck. The doctor had had so many fantasies regarding that neck that it was with unmitigated glee that he set about the task of marking it as his. When he finished he sat back to admire the rather colorful bruise that he had left and Sherlock smirked.

"People will talk," the detective said, his voice low and smooth.

"They do little else," John quoted back to him with a grin before returning to Sherlock's neck.

He kissed and nipped and licked his way down Sherlock's body, pausing for a moment at his nipples and then his navel, until, finally, he reached the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and stopped. Sherlock, who had up until that point been rather active, practically writhing beneath him, froze, looking down at John with wide eyes. Both men had reached the limit of what they were confident in their ability to do correctly and were wondering how exactly to proceed. After a few moments of indecision John decided that he was being ridiculous and he sure as hell wasn't going to stop now just because he was a bit out of his element. He took a deep breath to try and steady his frantic heart before moving his steady hands to his friend's belt. Sherlock remained perfectly still, barely even trusting himself enough to breathe. John quickly unfastens his trousers before standing up and finishing the job, leaving them both in only their pants.

John returned to the bed and knelt between Sherlock's long, pale, muscular legs. He leaned down to mouth Sherlock's cock through his pants, finally breaking the detective's impromptu vow of silence. He continued what he was doing and Sherlock became more and more vocal. After a few minutes the man was practically thrusting his hips up into John's face, which was a far more pleasant experience than the Doctor would ever have guessed. John reached up and slowly pulled down Sherlock's boxers.

"I've never done this before, so I'm likely to be shit at it," John said, looking slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a small huff of laughter, "John, I'm fairly certain that this is one of those situations where it's the thought that counts, because I know for a fact that if you get your mouth anywhere near my cock it's going to be absolutely bloody fantastic."

John smiled up at him before taking a deep breath and bringing his mouth down around the detective. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and his hands fisted in the sheets. John twirled his tongue around the head a few times before bobbing down, using his fist to stroke what he couldn't fit in his mouth. Sherlock let out a breathy moan before reaching up and gently tangling his hand in John's sandy hair, squeezing his eyes shut to keep from crying out. John's mouth and hand moved faster and faster until it was all Sherlock could do to frantically tug at the doctor's hair as a warning before he was coming, biting his bottom lip in order to stifle his cry.

Swallowing wasn't nearly as disgusting as John had imagined. As soon as he had worked Sherlock through his orgasm he slithered up the other man's body, but hesitated when he reached his lips, not wanting to kiss him with the residue of come still in his mouth. Sherlock read his expression and would have rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite summon the energy, so he just smirked instead.

"John Watson," he said, his voice still more than a little breathless, "if you think that I'm actually not going to kiss you after that, then you're crazier than I am."

John grinned before pressing his lips against Sherlock's, opening his mouth to let in the other man's tongue. The doctor was so focused on kissing Sherlock and rutting against his hip that he was actually surprised when Sherlock reached down and wrapped his long fingers around his erection. John let out a breathy moan and thrust into the detective's fist; Sherlock smirked again. John moaned and started panting as Sherlock's hand worked faster and faster, his thumb rubbing roughly over the head and dipping into the slit. It really doesn't take very long at all for John to finish, and then he's biting into Sherlock's neck as he comes - he honestly would be a bit embarrassed at that if he weren't so utterly thrilled at the whole situation.

As soon as he was confident in his ability to walk without collapsing, John placed a kiss on Sherlock's temple and carefully untangled himself from the mass of gangly limbs. He quickly made his way to the bathroom and cleaned himself up before wetting a flannel to take back for Sherlock. When he walked back into Sherlock's bedroom, though, the doctor's slightly smug grin fell off his face.

Sherlock was laying on his side, his naked back to the door, with his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked as small as he possibly could and his entire frame was shaking with what looked like silent sobs. His suspicions are confirmed when Sherlock, obviously not having noticed John's return, let out a strangled whimper. John's heart broke at the sound and he rushed forward, kneeling on the bed beside his friend's trembling form.

"Sherlock," John whispered, cautiously laying his hand on the detective's shoulder, "Sherlock, love, what's wrong?" Sherlock turned to look at him, still shaking and not bothering to hide either his surprise or tears.

"You came back," the detective whispered in disbelief, "you haven't left yet."

John's already shattering heart broke a little bit more as he nodded, "Of course I came back. Did you really think that I would leave?" He leaned down and kissed him before Sherlock had the chance to respond; he already knew the answer and saw no need for it to be said out loud. He cleaned his friend as quickly as he could by still being gentle before maneuvering them both underneath the duvet and wrapped himself tightly around his partner's thin frame.

Sherlock snuggled in closer to John, closing his eyes as his shaking subsided, "I love you, John."

"I love you too, Sherlock," John replied, intertwining their fingers.

He was almost asleep when Sherlock leaned his head back and whispered, "Next time, I'm going to make you scream." John just smirked and whispered, "I hope you do," before finally drifting off.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up in Sherlock's bed alone. It really wasn't all that surprising or disappointing - he hadn't really expected things to be that much different just because they had shagged - and he was sure that if Sherlock had actually had second thoughts at some point during the night then he would have woken him up to tell him to get the hell out of his bed. So John just smiled to himself and went to take a shower. He had originally planned on making an actual breakfast for the two of them, but considering the fact that Sherlock wasn't anywhere in the flat and probably wasn't planning on returning anytime soon, John decided to just go with his usual tea and toast.

The kitchen was in its usual state of disarray, but the kettle was free of body parts and the toaster was in one piece and relatively working order, so as long as Sherlock hadn't substituted arsenic for the sugar again then he was more than content with the situation. When he got his favorite mug down from the cupboard he saw that someone (re: Sherlock) had stuck a post-it note to the handle.

Went to Bart's to observe an autopsy of an aneurysm victim, followed by several possibly

explosive experiments. I should be back by seven if you want dinner. Breakfast is in the oven. - SH

John smiled to himself as he retrieved the plate that had been kept warm in the oven - maybe things had changed after all.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to 221b and tried to calm his pounding heart. <em>It's just John,<em> he told himself. _Beautiful, wonderful amazing John who would never mock or taunt or hurt. _He stared at the seventeen steps to their flat and tried not to panic. It didn't really work, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to move if for no other reason than that he had told John that he would be back by seven. He recognized that it probably wasn't the best idea to leave John to wake up alone, but unfortunately he hadn't even thought about that when he rushed off that morning at the offer of an autopsy and a lab. He had, however, made breakfast, and he hoped that that would at least count for something.

When he first walked through the door the flat was silent and Sherlock was convinced, even if just for a moment, that John had packed his things and moved out. Then there was a blessedly John-like clatter from the kitchen and he started breathing again. Sherlock hoped that his nervousness didn't show has he made his way into the kitchen - he really hated in when he appeared to be anything less than completely self-assured.

John heard Sherlock walk into the kitchen and he met him with a quick kiss and smile before turning back to the stove to dish up two plates, "Your note said dinner, and since you made me breakfast I figured it was my turn to cook for you. I cleared off the desk in the sitting room; I thought that it would be easier for us to just eat in there, rather than try and tamper with your chemistry set." He finished serving their food and led the way into the sitting room. Sherlock discarded his suit jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows before sitting down across from John.

It wasn't until they were seated across from each other that John really looked at Sherlock. He immediately noticed the look of almost abject terror on the other man's face and tried to smile reassuringly, "Sherlock, relax, it's just dinner, not a firing squad. I promise I didn't poison it, unless of course you decided to hide some sort of chemical in the garlic powder." Sherlock attempted a smile, which failed miserably, and John laughed, "Sherlock, you do realize that I can tell when you're shamming, and that wasn't even a good attempt. Seriously though, calm down. How was your day?" Sherlock froze, wondering if this was some sort of set up about him leaving that morning. John noticed and smiled again, "It's not a trick question, love, I'm just curious."

The endearment was startling, but it was unexpectedly comforting enough for Sherlock to relax and answer, "The autopsy was really fascinating. I've never seen the autopsy of someone who died as a result of an aneurysm, and I wanted to be able to see tell the difference between that as a cause of death and something more nefarious. And the director of the chemistry department finally realized that she owed me a favor and offered me the use of one of her labs. It was nice not to have to break in for once."

John rolled his eyes, "Oh come on, you know you like breaking in. It keeps you entertained."

"True," Sherlock smiled before turning nervous again, "I didn't mean to run out on you this morning, I just got excited. I made you breakfast, though; I hope you liked it."

John smiled reassuringly, "Don't worry about it, and breakfast was very good. I've always thought that you'd be a good cook; it's merely chemistry after all."

Sherlock preened under the compliment but tried not to show it, "Thank you, but I've always thought that your cooking was better."

"That," John said with a chuckle, "is pure sentiment. But thank you anyway." After a few more quietly comfortable moments Sherlock realized that John wasn't about to bite his head off and they relaxed into their normal companionable routine. And if the was a bit more physical contact than was strictly necessary or usual, then neither man was complaining.

When they finished eating, John took their dishes into the kitchen and started the washing up. Sherlock followed him, not wanting to be separated from his (boy?)friend, but he really didn't want to just hover creepily, so he sat at the table and started putting slides at random under his microscope, although he was definitely paying more attention to a certain army doctor than the month old mould cultures he'd been meaning to throw out for the past week.

"Sherlock," John said, startling Sherlock out of his silent, apparently-not-so-secret vigil, "if you're not going to do something useful why don't you come help me dry. And before you claim that you're working on some vitally important experiment, remember that I know you've been meaning to throw those cultures out for at least a week."

Sherlock smirked as he took the dish towel that John offered him, "Good observation."

John responded with the dazzling smile that had always made Sherlock's knees feel a bit weak, "Well, I should hope that I've at least picked up something living here." Sherlock just returned his grin.

After a few minutes of companionable silence John cleared his throat and said, "So, I was thinking that we should talk about this thing we're doing." Sherlock nodded, not sure what to say, and John took that as a sign to keep talking, "So, I thought we could start by specifying monogamy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered quickly, "Obviously." He froze. _What if it's not obvious? What if John doesn't want that? What if that's not normal this early in a relationship?_

John chuckled and nudged the detective with his shoulder to bring him out of his head, "I know it's obvious, I just think that it's one of those things that should be said out loud. Now, what do you want to call this: boyfriends, partners, some other word of your choosing?"

"I don't think I really care as long as it's not ridiculous," Sherlock answered with a shrug. "But," he added cautiously, "I think that it might be best if we didn't go public with this. I'd rather keep our private lives private."

The doctor nodded, still smiling, "Alright, that makes sense. I can't say that I'm thrilled at the idea of Anderson and Donovan taking shots at our relationship."

Sherlock returned his smile, "So, what are your conditions?"

"Conditions?" John asked with a frown. "What do you mean conditions?"

"You know conditions, like no body parts in the house," he answered, trying to sound flippant rather than panicked.

John shook his head, "Sherlock, I love you; I'm not going to give you these ridiculous conditions that have nothing to do with our relationship. Yeah, your experiments drive me crazy sometimes, but I honestly wouldn't change you for anything." Sherlock stared at him for a moment, completely stunned, before lunging forward and kissing him. John chuckled against his lips before returning the kiss with equal fervor.

Later that night the boys of 221b had fallen happily into their usual routine. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa writing up his experiments, and John was in his chair with a novel. At around ten thirty John started yawning and within twenty minutes he was ready to head upstairs to bed. He placed an only somewhat awkward kiss in Sherlock's hair and wished him goodnight without a response. John was halfway up the stairs when Sherlock called his name.

"Hmm?" he asked, turning around.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, "I, uh, I love you."

"I love you too," John replied with a smile.

Sherlock nodded, smiling back, "Good night John."

"Goodnight Sherlock," John replied before continuing up the stairs.

* * *

><p>John woke up with a start. 3:19 am. The flat was silent, eerily so. He lay quietly, his breathing calm, and tried to figure out why he was awake. After a few sleepy moments he realized that he wasn't the only one in his bed. Sherlock was curled on his side, his back to John. He was pressed against the wall, obviously trying to make himself as small as possible. John wasn't sure how long he had been there, but he knew that he wasn't asleep - there was no way that someone could be asleep and still be that completely rigid.<p>

"Sherlock, are you okay?" He asked, trying to wake up sufficiently to follow any sort of conversation with Sherlock (who had apparently decided that if he didn't move then John couldn't see him; he even stopped breathing to achieve that goal). John sighed, "Sherlock, I know you're awake. Now, why don't you tell me what you're doing in my bed?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock finally mumbled, "I'll leave now. Sorry."

He moved to get up and John grabbed him by the shoulder, "Wait, that's not what I meant. I was just wondering what you're doing?"

Sherlock still didn't look at him, but he did stop trying to escape, "I was tired and couldn't sleep. I generally sleep better when you're around, so..."

John smiled, "Okay then, what are you doing way over there? That can't be comfortable. Come on over here; there's plenty of room." He turned onto his back, leaving space for his partner.

"Are you sure? I don't want to bother you," he said, slowly rolling over.

The doctor rolled his eyes, "You're not bothering me. I thought that it was implied that you now have an open invitation to my bed."

He nodded, "Well yes, but I didn't know if that extended to just sleeping."

John smiled, pulling the detective closer, "That invitation always includes just sleeping. Now, since at least one of us actually has to get up and go to work in the morning, we should probably get back to the actual sleeping part of that." Sherlock hummed in agreement and snuggled closer to his doctor. John took a moment to arrange the lanky detective in the most comfortable position before falling back asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to Sherlock shaking him frantically. He blinked and sat up, pushing Sherlock's hands away. He rubbed his eyes and woke up enough to be able to follow a conversation. He was in Sherlock's bed (it was bigger and more comfortable than his, especially if there were two people) and the detective himself was sitting cheerfully cross-legged beside him. John couldn't help but hope that there was an interesting case. He felt awful wishing for a murder, but it had two weeks since Sherlock's last case and the man was practically climbing up the walls. Of course, the world's only consulting detective had been pleasantly distracted for about a week of that by the shiny new shagging-relationship he had developed with his army-doctor flatmate, but sex could only distract him for so long before he started to go a bit stir crazy. John wasn't offended by that - Sherlock was still Sherlock - and he was actually quite chuffed by the fact that he had been able to distract him for that long.

"Case?" John asked, trying desperately to keep the hope out of his voice; it wouldn't do for both of them to get so inappropriately excited about murder.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes practically glowing, "Yes; Lestrade just texted me! Are you coming?"

John nodded, searching the ground for his trousers, "Of course I'm coming. When have I ever turned you down?" Sherlock beamed at him for a moment before scrambling for his clothes.

Half an hour later saw the boys of 221b walking towards a crime scene, trying desperately not to look like they were a) too ridiculously thrilled by the double homicide that they were there to investigate, or b) shagging. Sergeant Donovan was once again manning the perimeter, and after the traditional verbal sparring match between herself and the detective, she let them in. The bodies, a boy and a girl in their mid-teens, were laid out side by side in the alley. Sherlock had John give cause of death, strangulation, before beginning his routine examination.

Five minutes later Sherlock straightened himself out and Lestrade looked at him questioningly. The detective smirked a bit before launching into his usual fast paced stream of deductions, "They are dating, definitely secretly: her ring matches the one he has on a chain around his neck. They belong to rival gangs, judging by the tattoos on her ankle and his neck. They were murder to give a message against such relations, by her gang judging by the strangling: it's their signature. Simple. Star crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet and the like. You really could have solved this yourself if you would just open your eyes and see."

Donovan snorted, "You know Shakespeare?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course I know Shakespeare. It's impossible to go through school without learning more than a little about the man."

Anderson grimaced, "Yeah, but Romeo and Juliet? I'm surprised that a freak like you can even comprehend the concept of romance. I shudder to think about what you would do if you actually conned someone into a relationship with you; I bet you'd leave them in bed for an autopsy, but hey, you'd leave leave a note, probably in some obscure, not obvious place, so it's all good, right?"

Sherlock's jaw tensed and his eyes flashed with a alarming anger, but it was John who spoke, his voice low and dangerous, "Anderson, you really should learn to keep your mouth shut, because I really don't think that you have any room to talk when it comes to relationships. Only a contemptible little shit like you doesn't have the balls to stay faithful to his wife, and then tries to make himself feel more important my insulting those better better than him. Now if we're quite done here, then I'd like to go get some breakfast because I was dragged out of bed far to early for this miserable case that you really didn't need us for." He gave a curt nod to Lestrade before turning and walking determinedly towards the main road. Sherlock felt the irrational need to apologize for John's abrupt departure and wondered if that was how John felt whenever he stalked away, but he shook off that feeling and quickly followed after his partner.

John didn't acknowledge his friend again until they were a good ways away from the crime scene, and even then his acknowledgment came in a very unexpected way. He grabbed his lanky detective by his very convenient coat lapels and dragged him into the nearest alleyway. Before Sherlock even had the chance to begin to ask John what he was doing, the doctor pulled the detective tightly against him and crushed their lips together. It was a harsh, bruising kiss with John's lips and tongue working together in perfect synchronism to stage a small scale invasion of his friend's mouth. Sherlock, for his part, had never felt so completely and utterly claimed as he did by that kiss, and he loved it. He let himself be carried away by John's affections for a few more blissful moments before finally pushing back. He pressed John against the nearest brick wall and kissed him with everything he had.

When they finally parted for breath John leaned up and whispered, "I love your obscure little notes." He nibbled on Sherlock's earlobe, eliciting a full body shudder before continuing, "And I have not been conned into a damn thing. I have hoped and prayed and begged any deity I could think of for a chance with you, and now that I actually have you I don't want anyone making you think, even for a second, that I am anything less than over the moon about us. Do you understand me? I don't want you to be anything other than yourself, and everyone else can just go straight to hell; got it?" He didn't wait for an answer before beginning to nip, kiss, and lick his way down his lover's neck, effectively derailing every thought that Sherlock had.

Sherlock moaned, not even attempting to stay quiet, "John, oh, I love you so much, John."

He felt John smile against his skin, "I love you too, and you're mine; aren't you?" Sherlock nodded, letting out another moan as John bit and sucked at his pulse point, very purposefully leaving a mark before reaching back up to recapture Sherlock's mouth.

It was a testament to John's superb snogging technique that Sherlock didn't even notice the rather obvious fact that John had been rutting helplessly away at him for several minutes. Once he did notice, it was absolutely impossible for him to think about anything else. After a few more moments and a positively filthy moan from John, Sherlock decided that he really did have to do something to help him. Without thinking anymore about it, he dropped to his knees and began frantically tugging at his belt. When Sherlock finally pulled his cock out John slammed his head back against the brick wall and let out a frankly obscene moan.

Sherlock had never really liked giving head; it wasn't that he was opposed to the concept, he just didn't enjoy how rough his previous partners had been. In that moment, however, he wasn't thinking about any of that as he swallowed John down as far as he could. He pulled back to twirl his tongue around the head and John brought his and up to intertwine his fingers in his hair. Holmes prepared to be pulled forward, but he wasn't. John merely caressed the back of his head gently and did his best to hold his hips perfectly still; Sherlock would have smiled if his mouth hadn't been so preoccupied. It was only took a few more minutes until Sherlock had John biting his knuckles and coming. He had just re-zipped John's trousers when John grabbed him by his lapels and dragged him back to his feet and crushed their lips together. He quickly worked his hand into Sherlock's trousers and began fisting his cock.

"Fuck, Sherlock, that was brilliant," he whispered. "You're brilliant." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his face into John's neck. John ran his free hand down Sherlock's arm, across his shoulders, and up to the nape of his neck, all the while whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sherlock had never really seen the point of saying things like that during sex, it was just biology after all, but when John whispered that he was beautiful and gorgeous and brilliant, it was all he could do to keep from moaning. If it was anyone else but John, it really should have been embarrassing how quickly he was biting down on John's shoulder to keep himself from yelling as he came.

John quickly put Sherlock's clothing together again, cleaning them both up the best he could with his handkerchief, before tossing it aside and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, whose face was still buried in John's neck. Sherlock was still taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, when he felt John start to shake with almost silent laughter. He tensed and began to pull away, certain that he was being laughed at. John noticed and tightened his grip on his friend, trying to get enough control to be able to speak.

"Oh Sherlock," he said, gasping through the giggles, "that has got to be one of the more ridiculous things we've done."

Sherlock returned his smile, relaxing, "You say that a lot."

John shrugged, "We do a lot of ridiculous things."

He nodded in acquiescence, "Come on let's find a cab. I know a great place for breakfast." John grinned and let the detective lead the way back to the main road.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was in a surprisingly good mood, especially considering how "disappointingly simple" the case had been. He had actually eaten a full meal at breakfast and was practically chipper as the two walked back to Baker Street. If it put him in this good of a mood all the time, John thought that he'd have to shag him in an alleyway more often. They stopped just inside of the front door and hesitated. Sherlock was smiling with a look that John didn't recognize. Before he got the chance to ask what was going on, though, Sherlock leaned down to press a sweet kiss against his lips, still smiling. John deepened the kiss, stepping even closer. A few minutes later Mrs. Hudson opened her door and the two men pulled apart. John blushed and coughed awkwardly, but Sherlock was non-plussed.

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson," the detective said cheerily. "How are you?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled at them, "Oh I'm good; and how are you two boys?"

Sherlock grinned at her, "Oh, we're fantastic Mrs. Hudson, better than Christmas." He smiled down at his friend as he spoke.

John grinned, "Better than a murder in a locked room." Sherlock laughed his deep, rumbling laugh that was far less rare than people assumed. The two quickly said goodbye to their land lady and quickly headed upstairs, bypassing almost the entire flat in favor of getting to the bedroom as quickly as possible.

Later that afternoon Sherlock was out doing Sherlock-y things and John was happily at home with his laptop trying to decide whether or not to write up that morning's case. There was a quiet knock on the door followed by Mrs. Hudson's friendly "woo-hoo" and then she was entering with a tea tray.

"Hello dear," she said with a smile, "I thought we could have a bit of tea and a chat."

John nodded clearing a spot for them to sit, "Of course, of course. Sit down. How's your hip?"

She tutted at him, pouring the tea, "It's just fine, but that's not what I'm here to talk about. I just wanted to congratulate you on finally coming to your senses about Sherlock."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he answered with a smile. "Although, Sherlock and I have decided that we would rather people not know about our relationship, and we would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone." The smile immediately fell off her face and if it wasn't for extensive army training John would have shivered at the frankly terrifying glare that his landlady unleashed on him.

"John Watson," Mrs. Hudson hissed, her voice deceptively and frighteningly calm, "you should be ashamed of yourself. Sherlock Holmes has been head over heels for you for months, and you're too embarrassed to acknowledge that you're dating to those you work with? I expected better from you."

John shook his head frantically, "That's not what this is about; I swear. I'm not embarrassed of Sherlock - of course I'm not. Sherlock was the one who wanted to keep it a secret. He doesn't want anyone to have any more ammunition against us."

Mrs. Hudson relaxed a bit, but still looked a bit suspicious, "Alright dear, but are you sure that you haven't given him the impression that you don't _want_ to be seen with him? I don't understand why he wouldn't want everyone to know. He's wanted you for so long."

"Of course I want to be seen with him," he answered with a sigh, "he's Sherlock; he's the most amazing man I've ever met."

"Well as long as you two are happy," she replied, smiling, "then I suppose that it's just one of Sherlock's quirks." John returned her smile and they finished their tea.

Later that night John was happily listening to Sherlock play his violin at the window when all of a sudden the detective groaned and flopped in his chair with an ear piercing flourish of the violin.

"What's wrong?" John asked with a sigh.

"Mycroft," he bit out, "he's here to 'congratulate' us on our new relationship, the nosy bastard."

John sighed, "Of course he is. Do you think he'll knock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Does he ever knock?" John smirked before getting up to gently take the violin out of his hands and set it aside. Sherlock looked up at him, curiosity written on his face, but he didn't say anything as John carefully straddled his lap, placing an almost chaste kiss on his lips. Sherlock was about to ask John just what he thought he was doing when the doctor leaned in again, this time for a far less chaste kiss.

"Wait, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled, pulling back a bit. "He'll be here in a minute."

John smirked, "I know. You can tell me to stop if you want, but this seemed like a better option than torturing your violin."

"So you want him to see us?" The detective asked, a bit breathless.

He nodded, kissing his neck, "Well he already knows, and this might get him to shut up. Trust me, no older brother wants to see their younger sibling doing this."

"That's brilliant," Sherlock murmured, arching up into him. "Absolutely brilliant."

"I thought so," John answered with a smirk before kissing him again, long and deep and dirty. He ground his hips down against Sherlock's, forcing the man to let out a rather obscene groan just as Mycroft stepped through the door.

Mycroft froze momentarily before taking a deep breath to calm himself. determined to continue as if nothing out of the usual was occurring. John gave a self-satisfied smile at the falter in the man's step before moving his attention's to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock, for the first time in a very long time, was unsure of how to respond to his brother's presence.

"Congratulations on your change in relationship. I must say I've been expecting this happy announcement for some time now," Mycroft said with just the right amount of disdain slipping into his voice, ignoring the fact that he seemed must less omniscient considering the compromising position he had just walked in on. His hand clenched and unclenched in unconscious longing for his umbrella - a sure sign of his nervousness that Sherlock didn't miss.

"Yes, well, I don't see how that is any of your concern," Sherlock bit out with a glare that was only slightly less severe than usual. "Now, is there some other reason for this invasion of privacy."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Contrary to what you may believe, I don't need some sort of subversive motive in order to display familial interest." He faltered a bit when Sherlock let out a groan that was only half faked, but soldiered on admirably, "I'm sure that Mummy will be absolutely thrilled to hear that you've finally found someone." Both brothers ignored the fact that that was a boldfaced lie and Mycroft couldn't keep the faint flush off his cheeks as John switched to the other side of Sherlock's neck and carefully insinuated a talented hand in between their bodies. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and Mycroft's cheeks grew even darker as his little brother let out a moan that wasn't faked at all. John smirked to himself at the very obviously awkward break in the conversation; shutting up the Holmes brothers was definitely an accomplishment to be proud of.

Sherlock arched up into his hand and Mycroft momentarily closed his eyes to compose himself; he wasn't about to let his obnoxious little brother and his pet make him loose his infamous cool - he was the ice man for Christ's sake. "I must say that I'm a bit surprised that it's taken you this long. You've never been one to wait before taking what you want." John ground his hips down against Sherlock's, eliciting a needy whine from the detective and the British Government decided that it was definitely time to stage a hasty retreat, a very hasty retreat. He cleared his throat, "Well then, I have a very busy," his voice cracked when John bit down on Sherlock's neck, forcing a breathy almost-scream from the other man, "schedule and really must be going now. Important meetings and all." He quickly backed out of the room as he spoke and left without even waiting for a response, running down the stairs as he heard Sherlock let out a definite scream.

"He's gone," John whispered when he heard the front door slam.

Sherlock, who honestly hadn't noticed his brother's departure, smiled. "Good. Don't stop."

John grinned, working his hand back into his partner's trousers, "I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN - **

****The bit with Mycroft was inspired by LIGHTNSHADOWS.

Thanks for reading and please review.


	5. Chapter 5

John had just gotten back from work and was quietly reading the paper in his chair when he heard the familiar sound of his flatmate taking the seventeen steps up to their flat two at a time. He didn't bother to hide his grin as Sherlock burst through the door, but it quickly disappeared when he saw the look on his lover's now frozen face. He hadn't seen that look since he had been strapped to Semtex. Both men froze for a brief moment that never seemed to end, but before John was able to formulate the right words to ask what was wrong Sherlock pounced on him. Sherlock barely gave him a chance to breathe, let alone speak, and it took himself several moments for John to formulate enough of a thought pattern to realize that they probably shouldn't be doing this.

He carefully, but forcefully, pushed the detective away. "Sherlock, what's going on? What's wrong?"

Sherlock's face crumpled, the panic still evident in his eyes, and he reached out to caress John's cheek. "Later, John, please, later." John sighed, knowing that he should probably say no, but he nodded instead, ready to follow Sherlock anywhere. Sherlock looked slightly less anguished and lunged forward, sucking on John's neck in a way that forced a breathy moan out of the soldier's lips.

Later, after they had finished, Sherlock started pacing. He was practically ringing his hands as he mumbled so low that John could barely hear him, but from what he could hear he's pretty sure Sherlock's speaking another language, probably French. John hadn't seen the detective this twitchy since right before he kissed him for the first time, and that put him on edge. It was always disconcerting when Sherlock - normally so self assured and confident - was nervous. And that's what this was, pure nervousness so severe that it bordered on terror. Finally John decided that enough was enough, and when Sherlock next got within grabbing distance he reached out and took hold of his arm, pulling him to a stop next to him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong," he asked using his best 'doctor dealing with frantic patients' voice.

"I have something to show you," Sherlock mumbled, refusing to look at his partner.

John sighed, "Well, why don't you show me then, love."

"Because I'm afraid," he whispered, his voice so quiet that John could barely hear him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he answered, placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock's palm, "so just show me whatever it is you need to show me and have a little faith." Sherlock nodded before going over to the desk and bringing back a folder. He handed it to John, but John didn't open it.

"What is this?" The doctor asked, purposefully keeping eye contact with his partner.

"It's my arrest record," Sherlock answered matter of factly, carefully keeping any emotion out of his voice.

John still didn't open the folder or take his eyes off of the detective. "And why do I need to see this?"

Sherlock sighed. "Because it contains information that seems pertinent to our relationship, and full disclosure seems like the best course of action in this matter."

"Alright," he answered, finally looking down at the folder as he opened it.

Reading through Sherlock's file, John wasn't really surprised by anything it said. A couple of ASBOs, a few charges of breaking and entering, and he had been arrested several times for drug possession. Even the prostitution arrests weren't all that shocking since Sherlock had already told him. He closed the folder and held it out to the detective, a purposefully blank expression on his face.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, his nervousness finally bleeding into his voice.

"Well what?" John asked. "There was nothing in that folder which you either hadn't told me or I hadn't already guessed. What was this exercise supposed to accomplish?" Sherlock's cheeks flushed and while he tried to look as if that was the answer he had been expecting all along, it was fairly obvious that that wasn't the case. And if his expression hadn't been enough of a clue, then the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes seemed to be incapable of speech definitely gave the game away.

Over the years, Sherlock had often been accused of being a mind reader, and allegation that irked him to no end. Given any opportunity whatsoever he would inform anyone who would listen that the mere idea of him being a mind reader was impossible, he merely observed the obvious, and to imply otherwise was wrong, stupid, and just plain offensive. He always scoffed at the idea of psychics or esp. However, if he were pressed, he would swear that John could, on occasion, read his mind. He could find no other explanation for what John did, for John wasn't just observing the obvious. He would just look at Sherlock for a few moments and then make some illogical statement about Sherlock's emotions or state of mind. It would have been ridiculous except for the fact that John was always, _always_ right. This was one of those times.

John sighed, reaching for Sherlock's balled up hand. "Sherlock, love, did you really think that this was going to scare me away? That I'd see your file and just up and leave?"

"Others have," Sherlock mumbled, refusing to meet his doctor's eye. John's heart broke a little bit, hearing that. He pulled Sherlock closer and then down into his lap.

"I'm not going to just run away; your past isn't nearly that scary," John said comfortingly. "Yes, I think some of what happened to you is a bit tragic, but that's not going to make me leave." He punctuated his statement by placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock's cheek. They had only been dating for a little over two weeks, but John had already learned a few surprising facts about his new beau. One of which was that while it was true that you often had to hit him over the head with a proverbial hammer of emotions, sometime subtlety worked much better. Which was why instead of trying to reassure his flame with affection, he gave him a simple peck on the cheek and let the detective work it out.

Sherlock's posture was stiff and guarded, but he slowly relaxed as John's words set in. Sometimes John swore that he could literally see Sherlock's brain working, and this was definitely one of them. John loved watching the light dawn in his love's eyes as Sherlock realized that he wasn't going to be mocked or degraded or shunned for his past, even though the fact that it was even a question of whether or not he would mock or degrade or shun his boyfriend made him sick. Finally Sherlock grinned his brilliant 'just for John' grin.

"I love you John Watson," he murmured, leaning down for a kiss. "I really do."

John kissed him before answering. "I love you too." Sherlock gave him another kiss, deeper this time before standing up and dragging him to the bedroom. John promised himself that they would have a serious talk about Sherlock's tendency to jump immediately to the worst case scenario, later.


	6. Chapter 6

After Sherlock's panic over his arrest record and the resulting sex both men decided that it would be good idea to spend the rest of the evening in bed. Sherlock was laying flat on his back in the middle of the bed. John was lying on his stomach with his cheek resting on Sherlock's shoulder and his arm around his waist. Usually, John was the one on his back with Sherlock sprawled across him, and the detective was taking the opportunity to revel in the different sensations that this new position provided. With one hand carding gently through John's hair, he ran his fingertips up and down John's spine, occasionally fanning out in order to feel all the different textures of the soldier's back.

When most people heard that John had been shot in the war they assumed that he'd have one, maybe two, scars, and that they'd be neat and clean; when they found out that they were wrong they were always horrified, even if they tried to pretend otherwise. Sherlock, of course, knew about the scars, and he had seen them even before their relationship had changed. But he had never really examined them - even he knew that that was inappropriate for a flatmate, or even a friend, to ask to do, and after they became lovers he was was a bit too preoccupied with other things to pay much attention to John's scars. In the detective's defense, John had done his level best to avoid giving his inquisitive love the chance to be too inquisitive about them, and he had even gone so far as to distract Sherlock quite thoroughly whenever the thought crossed his mind. It really was just a fluke, then, that Sherlock had been given such an exceptional chance to make a study of the doctor's back.

What had started out as light, gentle touches soon turned more purposeful as Sherlock began to try and deduce what had caused the scars by touch alone. John's first instinct was to tense and prepare to pull away, but he quickly reminded himself that this was Sherlock and not just anyone, taking a deep breath in order to force himself to relax. He lay there, squeezing his eyes shut against emotions that he really didn't want to deal with, ever. He felt Sherlock's curiosity begin to rise and knew that it wouldn't be too long before the need to know became so great that the detective would ask what had happened. John lasted about five minutes before the scrutiny became too much for him to bear.

"I'm starving, I think I'll order something for dinner," John announced, sitting up quickly and pulling himself out of his partner's grasp. "What do you feel like tonight?"

"What?" Sherlock asked dumbly, startled and a little concerned by the sudden activity. John liked to lay around for as long as possible after sex, so his sudden eagerness to get out of bed suggested that something was wrong.

John's skin felt like it was crawling and he was so focused on finding something to cover up with that he barely noticed his partner speak, let alone the worry and insecurity wrapped up in his voice. John put on the first then he could reach, which just happened to be Sherlock's dressing gown. He felt much less like he was about to vomit now that his back was covered. The robe was far too big for him, but he ignored how ridiculous he looked with the sleeves hanging down past his hands and the hem dragging on the ground. He focused on finding his mobile, trying to ignore how anxious and almost panicked he still felt.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his own panic rising.

"Nothing," John answered, having finally found his mobile. "What do you want? I was thinking Chinese, maybe Indian."

Sherlock sat up, his pulse beginning to race. "John, what's going on?"

John continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "Yes, I think Indian will be great for tonight. Our usual order then?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock answered quickly, hoping that if the issue of dinner was out of the way then John would tell him what was really going on. "John, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," John replied as he dialed. He was refusing to look at Sherlock and his voice was all wrong, obvious signs that he was lying. The thought literally made Sherlock sick to his stomach.

John placed the call, still not looking at his partner. Sherlock sat quietly at the edge of the bed, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him. He felt vulnerable and lost, so he pulled the duvet into his lap, trying to build up a barrier between him and the rest of the world. His scalp felt like it was burning and what had started as a vague feeling of nausea continued to grow until it was a very real possibility that he was actually going to be sick. By the time John hung up, the detective was actually on the verge of tears, a fact that filled him with shame and just made the whole situation worse.

John paused for a moment after ringing off before coming up with the perfect escape plan. "I'm going to go grab a shower before the food comes." He finally looked back at Sherlock and noticed the miserable expression on his face. He faltered, not wanting to abandon Sherlock, but still needing to escape.

He reached down and took Sherlock's chin in his hand, gently tilting his face up towards his own. "Keep an ear out for the food, okay?" He gave Sherlock a gently, but quick, kiss before fleeing upstairs, hoping that that that would be enough to reassure his friend.

One he was in the shower John turned the water on as hot as he could stand it and set to meticulously scrub his skin, trying to wash away the unwanted emotions. It didn't help, though, and after only a few minutes the flashbacks started. He let out a choked sob and sank to the floor of the tub as visions of blood and sand washed over him and the sound of gunfire and screams filled his ears. Before long he was back in the dark cave where his life ended.

Sherlock sat in his chair and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs. He had put on his pajamas, but he still felt naked without his dressing gown; he had almost put on his coat to make up for its absence, but he decided at the last minute that that was a bit ridiculous. The feeling that he was about to cry had, thankfully, passed, although he still felt rather ill. He hated that John could make him so panicky, but he didn't know how to make that feeling go away.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock quickly got up to answer it, not wanting the delivery man to ring again and disturb John or Mrs. Hudson. When he came back upstairs john was standing in front of the fireplace staring down at the skull on the mantle. His hair was still wet and he, like his partner, was wearing his pajamas; he had brought Sherlock's robe down, leaving it on the back of one of the chairs. Seeing him standing there, Sherlock suddenly felt the overwhelming need to touch him. So he put the bags of food down on the coffee table and approached his partner. John didn't seem to notice him, so Sherlock reached out to touch his shoulder.

As soon as he touched him the stillness broke, violently. John turned and and grabbed his wrist, almost crushing the bones. Before Sherlock had the chance to react, John knocked his fact out from under him and brought him to the ground. John straddled him, holding him in place. Still gripping on to his wrist, John pinned Sherlock's arm above his head before wrapping his other hand tightly around his neck, squeezing hard enough to cut off his air supply. Sherlock's eyes were wide with surprise and no small amount of fear. He reached up with his free hand and grabbed onto John's bicep, clutching his shirt in his fist. He mouthed John's name, wanting to call out for him to stop this, but unable to do so. Confused, he looked into John's eyes, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. In a moment of clarity as his vision began to blackout, Sherlock realized that John was just as scared as he was and probably didn't even recognize him. Still fighting for breath, Sherlock reached up and gently cupped John's cheek in his hand, letting his eyes fall closed.

Suddenly, the pressure was gone, and although it was painful, Sherlock could breathe again. He rolled over onto his side and instinctively clutched at his throat as he gasped for breath. Once his breathing had normalized he slowly sat up, looking for John.

John had backed himself into the far corner of the room, his back pressed tightly against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his shoulders were shaking with not quite silent sobs. Sherlock went forward onto his hands and knees and began to slowly crawl towards his friend.

When he was still about three feet away John held his hands out in front of him and yelled, "Stop! Don't come any closer!" Sherlock stopped, recognizing the panic in his voice. When he saw that Sherlock wasn't going ot get any closer, he let his arms fall to his sides. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Sherlock sat back on his heels and waited patiently for John to calm down. A few minutes later his breathing was back to normal and he opened his eyes, wiping the tears away with the heels of his hands.

"You need to see a doctor," he said quietly. "To make sure that I didn't break any of the bones in your neck; I don't think I did, but you'll want to make sure. And I understand if you want to press charges; I'll just wait here while you call Lestrade."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'm I'm not calling anyone, and I'm sure as hell not pressing any charges," he answered, his voice hoarse. "And you're a doctor, you're my doctor. You can check my throat." He tilted his head up, allowing John access to his neck. He was confident that John hadn't, in fact, broken any bones, and he normally wouldn't have even subjected himself to an examination, but this wasn't about him - this was about John and making sure that John knew he still trusted him.

John hesitated for a moment before he decided that he really wasn't in any position to argue with Sherlock. He left his position in the corner and slowly crawled towards his friend, eventually sitting cross-legged in font of him. His left hand was shaking too violently to be of any use, but he was able to give a reasonably through examination using only his right. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found no sign of permanent damage.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock," John whispered, pulling his hand away.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's okay. It was my own fault, I…"

"No!" John yelled, surprising Sherlock into shutting his mouth. John took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down before speaking again. "I almost killed you, Sherlock. There is no way that that's your fault."

Sherlock sighed and picked up from where John had interrupted him. "I know that you don't react well to being snuck up on; I should have been more careful."

"I'm your boyfriend, Sherlock;" John snapped. "You shouldn't have to be careful!"

Sherlock sighed. "Well it's not your fault either. You didn't mean to hurt me; you were trying to defend yourself. You must have been triggered by something. That's why you left suddenly and took a shower; you much have been triggered then. But we weren't doing anything, we ere just lying there." He paused for a moment and then realization dawned on his face. "Oh. Oh! I was rubbing your back, feeling your scars. You never let me touch them - this must be why."

"Brilliant, as usual," John whispered, hanging his head.

"I'm so sorry John" Sherlock whispered, wanting to reach out to him but afraid to touch him.

John shook his head. "Don't, please don't pity me. You're the only one who's never pitied me, please don't start now."

"Never," sherlock answered, grabbing for John's still shaking hand. "You're too strong to be pitied. I saw that from the very beginning. I never would have loved you if it were otherwise." There was a pause where both men were lost inside their own heads. Sherlock finally worked up the courage to ask how he got the scars but John beat him to it.

"Please don't ask me about Afghanistan," he said quietly, looking down at their intertwined hands. "It's not that I don't want you you to know; I just don't want to talk about it. Not to you, not to my therapist, not to anyone, ever." He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut before continuing. "But you can see them. I'll let you look at my scars and you can deduce what happened."

"You don't have to do that," he answered, awed by what John was offering.

John nodded. "I know you, Sherlock. You need to know everything about whatever it is you're interested in, and I know that eventually your curiosity will get the better of you and you'll find a way to learn what happened. I'd rather it be on my terms than yours."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed, feeling guilty but knowing better than to argue.

John nodded and then slowly turned around so that his back was to Sherlock. He took a deep breath to steady himself before lifting his shirt over his head and setting it aside. His shoulders were tense and his hands had clenched into fists where they rested on his knees, but he didn't feel like vomiting so he felt like he wasn't doing so badly. He just focused on taking deep breaths and not freaking out.

"Can I touch?" Sherlock asked, his voice soft and calming.

John nodded. "Yes, but I don't want to hear your deductions; please, just keep them to yourself."

Sherlock hummed in agreement before reaching out and placing his hand on John's wounded shoulder. John flinched, but Sherlock didn't move; he just sat very still, almost as if he was dealing with a spooked horse, and waited. When the soldier's shoulders finally relaxed a bit, he began to slowly move his hands down his back. Sherlock tried to make his examination as quick as possible while still being through. His stomach churned at what he saw - not because the scars were hideous, because he honestly didn't thing they were, but rather because he could see the pain behind them. He saw that they had been administered over the course of several weeks and that while several different weapons had been used, they had all been wielded by an expert. He could see where the infection had set in and that after the bullet had fragmented in his shoulder, John had dug the pieces out himself. And he knew, because he knew John, that John must have been terrified, but that he wouldn't have shown it.

When Sherlock finally came out from under the cloud of his own deductions he noticed that John was mumbling something under his breath. After a moment of concentration he realized that the doctor was quietly reciting the periodic table in an attempt to remain calm. Sherlock's chest hurt, knowing that he was at least partly responsible for the pain John was now in. Not knowing what else to do he leaned forward and placed a kiss on the nape of his neck, wrapping his arms around his waist. John's mumbling faltered and then stopped altogether as he placed his hands over Sherlock's. John's tension seemed to drain out of him and Sherlock smiled, kissing his neck again. A few minutes later Sherlock pulled back, running his hands over the scars on his lower back.

"These aren't from Afghanistan. They're older, much older," he said, hating himself even as the words left his mouth.

John nodded, his shoulders staying relaxed. "Yes, they are. After my mother died my father started drinking; he wasn't a very nice drunk."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, running his thumb over the small round cigarette burns.

John shook his head. "Don't worry about it; it was a long time ago. I've been over it for a while."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment but he didn't say anything. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the back of John's neck. He dragged his hands up his spine, running his fingers along the scars. This time, though, it wasn't inquisitive or searching, it was something very, very different. And John noticed.

"Sherlock?" He said, his voice confused.

"Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock asked, his voice breathier than even he expected.

John thought for a long couple of seconds before shaking his head. "No, no don't stop."

Sherlock huffed a breath of laughter against his skin. "Good." He smiled at the shiver that that sent down John's spine. He dug his fingers into tense muscles in order to knead away knots, kissing a line across his neck and shoulders. As time ticked by John relaxed more and more, practically melting into Sherlock's ministrations.

"The food is getting cold," John said a few minutes later.

Sherlock smiled, pressing his chest against John's back. "I thought that that was why we have a Food Only Microwave. So that we could heat food up."

John smiled. "You have a good point there, detective. But it's not exactly fair; you have a shirt and I don't."

Sherlock grinned. "That can be fixed." He slowly pulled away and lifted his shirt over his head. John took the opportunity to turn around and face his partner. The smile slipped off his face when he saw the finger-shaped bruises that were already forming around Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock shook his head. "John don't; I'm fine. Don't torture yourself. It's unnecessary."

Without saying a word, John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's neck. As his fingers closed around his throat, Sherlock flinched, involuntarily remembering the feeling of those fingers squeezing the life out of him. John yanked his hand away and moved backwards, giving Sherlock space.

Sherlock shook his head. "John, I'm sorry…"

"You're scared of me," John answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No," he replied quickly, panic rising at the though that his friend might leave because of this. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are; you just flinched away from me. That generally indicates fear," John said, looking away.

Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his own. "John, I trust you. Of course I do. I love you, and I trust you." He lifted John's hand and placed it on his own throat, gently stroking his fingers.

John slowly opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock, searching his face for any signs of fear. When he didn't find any, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He ran his thumb along the detective's jaw and Sherlock leaned into his hand, allowing himself a small smile. John leaned in and kissed his neck, gently tonguing his bruises. Sherlock tilted his head back, allowing him more access, and John moved his hand around so that he could cradle the back of his head. Sherlock reached up and grabbed onto John's biceps. He squeezed, trying to stifle what he was sure were going to be absolutely ridiculous noises.

John chuckled. "Ah, ah, ah, love. Don't you dare keep quiet."

"Now why would I do that?" He said, gasping as John slid his free hand down to his arse.

He laughed. "You know, I haven't had this much sex in ages." He leaned him back, coming down to lie between his legs, still kissing his neck.

"Me neither," Sherlock replied, reaching up to tangle his fingers in John's hair. "But the question is, is it quality or merely quantity?"

John propped himself up on his elbows so that he could grin down at him. "You are definitely a quality shag."

Sherlock laughed. "Good; very good. Top right hand drawer of the desk; lube and condoms."

"Brilliant," John answered, kissing him before crawling over to the desk.

When he got back Sherlock was naked and propped up on his elbows. John smiled and looked him up and down before stripping as well. He leaned down and kissed him before grabbing him by the waist and flipping them over so that Sherlock was on top of him.

"It's your turn to top, love," John said in response to the question that Sherlock hadn't asked yet.

"You don't have to," Sherlock replied. "You've never…"

John kissed him, cutting him off. "I want to. Please." Sherlock just smiled and kissed him again before sliding down to kneel between his legs.

Sherlock spent ages preparing John, terrified to cause him any pain, and by the time he was ready to enter him, John was literally writhing on the floor. As he entered his friend, Sherlock bit down on his lip so hard that he was afraid he was actually going to draw blood. John, whose eyes had previously been squeezed closed against the pleasure, opened his eyes wide and gasped, arching his back as Sherlock bottomed out. Sherlock froze, afraid that the change indicated pain.

John pulled back a bit and then thrusted himself back onto Sherlock's cock. "Move. You have to move. That's how this works."

Sherlock grinned and leaned down to nip at the spot under John's chin that never failed to make the doctor moan before he pulled almost all the way out and then pushed back in. Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to be able to last long so he set up a fast pace, hoping to bring John off before he lost it. Luckily, John was on such a short fuse after the extended preparation that it really wasn't going to take very long. Sherlock slid his hand between their sweaty bodies, grabbing hold of John's cock. He stroked and pulled, thumbing over the head and doing his best to make the stoic soldier scream. And then, with a particularly loud moan that might have started out as Sherlock's name, John arched his back and came. The feeling of John's muscles tightening around him and the look of pure ecstasy on his lover's face was more than enough to send Sherlock over the edge.

Later, after they had both come down from a rather spectacular orgasmic high, John built a fire and Sherlock laid out a blanket in front of the fireplace. While both men were hungry, food didn't seem worth the price of moving. Sherlock was on his back again with John sprawled happily across him. John folded his hands over Sherlock's chest and rested his chin on them. His smile faded and the skin around his eyes tightened as he once again surveyed Sherlock's neck.

"Let's not do this again," John said quietly, reaching out with one hand to caress his lover's throat.

Sherlock smirked. "That's a shame, because I quite enjoyed having sex in front of the fireplace."

John rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant."

Sherlock nodded, his smirk fading. "I know."

John leaned down and kissed him. "I do love you, Sherlock Holmes, very much."

"I know," Sherlock answered with a genuine smile. "I love you too, John Watson."

* * *

><p>AN - Please review and if you want to see any other "firsts," then feel free to let me know. I hoped you enjoyed this.


	7. Chapter 7

John Watson had seen the fight coming a mile away. It was their first fight as a "couple," and he supposed that that should make it special or something, but really, it was just par for the course. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was taken completely by surprise, which was probably part of the problem. They hadn't had a case in almost a week and since their relationship was no longer new enough to provide enough of a distraction, Sherlock was going a bit stir crazy. To be fair, Sherlock was dealing with his boredom much better than he had when John had first arrived, but it was still more than enough to drive the good doctor just a little bit crazy.

The growing tension finally broke when, after a long day at the surgery, John came home to find that Sherlock had used one of his jumpers to test blood smear patterns on their sitting room wall. After twenty minutes of rather spectacular yelling, John realized that Sherlock was about two minutes away from getting really nasty, and that that wasn't going to help anyone. So he left, telling Sherlock that he needed some air and giving them both time to cool off. There was a match on so he went down to the pub to have a pint and watch the game.

Sherlock had angled his chair so that he could watch the door, and there he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. He had cleaned up the blood, tidied his experiments in the kitchen, and although the jumper wasn't salvageable, he promised himself (and he would promise John as soon as the doctor just _came home_) that he would go and buy a new one as soon as the shops opened the next morning. John had left, and understandably so. Sherlock had been a pill, so John had left, escaped. Now, if he would only come back Sherlock would do anything to make sure that the doctor wasn't leaving for good.

It was late when Sherlock finally heard John's footsteps on the stairs. His heart began to race and he felt short of breath, but he forced himself to remain calm as the door opened. John started a bit when he realized that Sherlock was sitting there in the dark, but he recovered himself quickly and went to sit in his own chair across from Sherlock. Sherlock quickly gave him a once over, seeing that he had been in a pub, that he had had one, maybe two, pints, and that his team had won.

"Sherlock, why are you sitting here with the lights out?" John asked, his voice sounding amused and affectionate.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered dumbly, confused by John's tone. "I guess I just forgot to turn them on."

John chuckled. "Of course you did." There was a pause and then Sherlock decided that he really should get on with the apologizing.

"I cleaned up the blood, and organized the kitchen," he said quickly. "And the shops were closed, but I'll buy you a new jumper in the morning."

"Thank you," John said sincerely, "but that's not necessary." Sherlock felt himself go pale at that, wondering what else he could do to make John stay. After a few moments of silence, John realized that something was wrong.

"Sherlock? What's wrong; what's going on?" He asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock hesitated, but finally decided to just go with the straight forward approach, hoping that John would at least appreciate his honesty. "John, I'm sorry, alright. I was just so bored, and I didn't think. It was your least favorite jumper and I didn't think you'd miss it. I'm sorry. Please don't leave."

John shook his head. "What do you mean, leave? I'm not going anywhere I just went out for a pint so we could both just cool down. It was one fight; I'm not just going to leave you over a stupid fight because we've been a week without a case and we're _both_ going a bit mad from boredom." When Sherlock didn't answer him John got up and went to kneel in front of Sherlock's chair, wanting to make sure that he had the detective's full attention. "Sherlock, we fight; that's what we do - it's what we've always done. Neither of us are particularly easy to live with, which is how we ended up here, together. But our fights don't really mean anything; you know that. I may walk out, but I always come back. Always."

Sherlock nodded, reaching down to take John's hand in his own. "Alright." Even so, John could tell that he really wasn't convinced. After thinking for a moment he came up with a way to get it through even Sherlock's thick skull.

Reaching under his collar, John pulled out the chain with his military id tags. After a moment's hesitation he lifted them over his head. Weighing them in his hand he debated the best way to say what needed to be said. Finally, he decided to just go with the most direct route. He stretched up and placed the chain around Sherlock's neck.

"Here, you keep these," he said, making sure that they were on straight. "You know that I don't go anywhere without them, so you know that I won't leave without them. You keep them, and then you'll know that I'm coming back - even when we fight."

Sherlock clutched the tags in his fist, his eyes widened in surprise. "John, you don't have to do this."

John smiled. "I know; that's why I'm doing it. I want you to have them."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, finally smiling.

John leaned in and captured his friend's lips. "Come on, I'll show you what's different about us fighting now."

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked, smirking.

"Make up sex," John answered with a grin, standing up and taking his lover's hand. He led the way into the bedroom.

Sherlock was stretched out in the middle of the bed, completely naked except for the id tags that were resting on his sternum. John was kneeling between his legs, eying his lover hungrily. He loved seeing the cool, stoic, untouchable detective completely taken apart under his hands. Something in the back of his head told him that that was a very dangerous thing; he thought that that danger might actually be part of the draw. He leaned down and placed a wet, open mouthed kiss at the base of Sherlock's cock. Then another and another, trailing up his abdomen until he was practically tonguing his partner's belly button, which, John had been surprised to learn when they began this endeavor, was particularly sensitive. Sherlock squirmed, trying to avoid making the ridiculous noises John never failed to draw out of him.

"Why do you always do that?" John asked, continuing to tongue his stomach.

"Do… Ah… what?" Sherlock asked, unable to hold back a gasp.

John smirked at the slip in control, slight though it was. "Hold back; try and stay quiet. Why do you always do that?"

Sherlock reached down and tangled his fingers in John's hair before answering. "Because I sound ridiculous, and being laughed at really doesn't help my sexual experience. I … Ah … do not … Ah … have a humiliation kink." John's heart ached for a moment, hating the thought of anyone making Sherlock feel less than amazing, but he shook it off quickly.

Propping himself up so that he could look directly into Sherlock's eyes, John slid his hand down to Sherlock's groin. "Well, I think the noises you make are some of the sexiest things I've ever heard." Sherlock saw only honesty and desire on his partner's face, and when John finally squeezed his cock, he didn't even bother trying to hold back his moan. John's smile, pure and loving, made the ridiculousness worth it; well, that and the fact that John didn't remove his hand.

John, still slowly stroking Sherlock's cock, reached over to the bedside table and fished out the lube. Their blood test results, clean as expected, had come in the day before so he didn't bother with condoms. Sitting up, he finally released Sherlock's member in order to begin preparing his friend. He pressed his fingers into Sherlock, one and then two, scissoring them until he was stretched enough to add a third. He mercilessly prodded the tender nub inside of Sherlock, making the man moan and writhe. When he was properly begging John pulled out his fingers, eliciting a whine from the detective. He slicked himself up with one hand, using the other to rub soothing circles on Sherlock's hip.

"John, please," Sherlock moaned, his voice cracking a bit. John just smiled, decidedly not rushing himself. He lined himself up and slowly pushed in, not bothering to hold back his grin at Sherlock's reaction. He had his feet flat on the bed with his fists clenched in the sheets; his back was arched and his head was thrown back. John looked down at the seemingly endless expanse of pale skin and felt the need to mark it. And so, right as he finally slid all the way in, he leaned down and sucked a mark on Sherlock's neck, low enough that it could be hidden. Sherlock moaned, loudly and without reservations. John pulled out and thrusted back in, wanting to make him make that noise again. He did.

John rocked back and forth, barely pulling out, but still doing a good job of driving Sherlock crazy. After a few minutes, though, Sherlock decided that that was more than enough teasing, and took back some control over the situation. He grabbed John around the waist and used his not inconsiderable strength to flip them over. John gasped, partly from the shock and partly from something else entirely. Sherlock smiled and splayed his hands across John's chest, rolling his hips in a way that made John's eyes roll back in his head as he groaned. Sherlock lifted up and John moved his hands to Sherlock's hips, pulling him back down; Sherlock circled his hips in response.

Sherlock set up a rhythm. Fast paced and breathtaking; hard enough to make the headboard knock against the wall. John kept his hands firmly on Sherlock's hips, mesmerized by the sound of his tags clinking against Sherlock's chest. He was squeezing hard enough to leave bruises and thrusting up to meet his partner every time. Sherlock kept his eyes fixated on John's face, watching for the exact moment when the soldier's considerable self-control to began to slip. He could see that his partner wasn't going to last too much longer, and so he moved one of his hands from John's chest and wrapped it around his own cock. John watched him, forcing himself not to close his eyes. Sherlock, on the other hand, had squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, lost in the sensations. John, much to his surprise, was even more turned on watching Sherlock get himself off than he had been before. He watched Sherlock's hand work, pulling and twisting and rubbing his thumb roughly over the head, teasing the slit. Sherlock moved faster and faster as he got closer and closer to coming.

John's own orgasm was building, coiling low in his abdomen. Finally, Sherlock came, groaning out John's name. His muscles contracted, pulling John along with him, moaning something that probably started out as "Sherlock" but ended as "Shhhrrrrr." Sherlock was still moving, thrusting almost violently, and John pulled him down, holding him firmly against his pelvis. Sherlock circled his hips and John reached up to help work him through his orgasm. When they both finished Sherlock slumped forward to lean his forehead against his friends chest, gasping as John slipped out. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, using his other hand to trace meaningless symbols on his back. Both men were still breathing heavily, their chests heaving.

"God that was good," John huffed out with a small laugh.

"Rather," Sherlock answered, smiling as he rolled to the side so that most of his weight was resting on the bed instead of on John.

John leaned over and kissed him. "Oxytocin, Vassopressin, and Endorphins; they really are quite amazing, aren't they?"

Sherlock propped himself up so that he could look the other man directly in the face. "I think I could have another go, just hearing you say that." His expression was filled with awe, and it was obvious that he was a bit surprised by the technical terms.

The doctor chuckled. "You need to remember that I am, in fact, an actual medical doctor, and that it really isn't surprising that I know which chemicals the human body produces during coitus."

Sherlock's smile grew. "Oh, I never forget that you are, in fact, a very good doctor, and it is definitely not surprising that you know which chemicals the human body produces during coitus. It is, however, rather surprising that you said them now; most people don't find chemical reactions very romantic."

"Well we're not most people," John answered, kissing his friend's nose playfully. "Some time I'll have to identify your major muscles. It'll be a ball."

Sherlock's smile widened into a full fledged grin. "Only if I get to give the proper names for all two hundred and seven bones in your body." John tilted his head back and laughed, his whole body shaking. Sherlock instinctively tensed, but quickly realized that he wasn't being laughed _at_ and joined in.

"God, I love you," John said after he had calmed down enough to speak.

"I love you too," Sherlock answered, leaning down to kiss him. "Now, I think a shower is in order. Care to join me?"

John nodded, kissing him again. "Always."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock Holmes hated feeling guilty, and so he had simply decided to never allow that particular emotion to exist. If what he did or said hurt someone else, then that was their problem, not his. On the rare occasions that sheer force of will wasn't enough to ward off those who wanted him to feel guilt, hiding behind the rather useful label of sociopath was enough to send running anyone still willing to try. But John Watson had never believed him to be a sociopath, and while this was usually a fact that warmed Sherlock's supposedly non-existent heart, it was currently incredibly inconvenient. Because Sherlock had done so many things on this trip worthy of feeling incredibly guilty. He felt guilty for leaving John behind in the forest, for taking out Sherlock's own panic and distress on his friend, and, most of all, he felt guilty for drugging him and locking him in the lab. What made it even worse was that John wasn't even trying to make him feel guilty; he just accepted what had happened, make Sherlock promise to give him advanced warning for any future experiments, and then offered his friend forgiveness. He didn't yell or threated or belittle, but the nightmares he had that night were more than enough to make Sherlock feel like the most awful person in the world.

The pair decided to spend a few extra days in Dartmoor, mostly because John thought the relaxation would do the both good and Sherlock still felt far too guilty to argue with him. They did all the things you normally do on holiday: slept in late, ate too much food, and even did a little sightseeing. After two days and absolutely no complaints from Sherlock, John started to get a bit suspicious. He finally decided to figure out what was going on with his friend when, on their last morning there, Sherlock woke him up with breakfast in bed.

"Sherlock, what's gotten into you these past couple days?" He asked after sitting up and giving his partner a good morning kiss.

Sherlock shrugged, giving John his best I'm-completely-innocent smile. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," John answered; "you've just been abnormally sweet since we finished that last case."

"What? I can't be sweet without it being suspicious?" Sherlock asked, moving away. "Am I that bad of a boyfriend?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it," John said grabbing a hold of the front of Sherlock's shirt to keep him from getting away. "You're sweet to me all the time. Just usually not in ways that fit normal people's definition of 'sweet.' Like waiting until I get off work to chase after the really dangerous criminals, or letting me in the buildings you've broken into, or keeping all of the severed body parts to one shelf in the fridge."

Sherlock smiled a bit at that but answered him seriously. "Look, I know that this last case wasn't exactly my finest moment, and I just wanted to make sure you at least got a good holiday out of all of this."

"Well, I have had a lovely holiday; thank you," John said, pulling him in for another kiss. "I just wanted to make sure that this normal act wasn't going to stick. You're mad as a hatter, Sherlock, and I wouldn't want it any other way." Sherlock grinned, a warm feeling spreading through his chest.

John smiled and kissed him again. "Come up here and eat breakfast." He continued to tug on Sherlock's shirt until he was seated comfortably beside him.

"Do you have the map?" Sherlock asked, walking up to him just as John was checking them out of the inn. John nodded and pulled it out of his jacket pocket, handing it to Sherlock without breaking his conversation with the man behind the counter.

"I already put the bags in the truck." Sherlock said as they were exiting the inn a few minutes later. John nodded and thanked him.

"What do you need that for?" John asked, motioning to the map Sherlock was still studying.

"I was thinking that we could drive back to London instead of taking the train," Sherlock said, purposefully not looking up from his map.

"Drive?" John asked incredulously. "Do you even know how long that will take?"

"About five hours," he answered, still not looking at John.

"Sherlock, you don't even like the country," John said, beginning to wonder what was really going on.

"True," Sherlock conceded, "but I don't like carrots either, but, as you so often tell me, that's no reason for me not to eat them." John narrowed his eyes, unable to escape the feeling that he was being conned into something, but unwilling to argue with Sherlock's metaphor.

"Fine," he said after a moment's deliberation. "Let's drive."

"Great!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking far too excited and pleased with himself for John not to be a bit wary.

The two men rode in silence, neither felt the need to fill the time with idle chatter. John stared out the window, watching the countryside go by and trying not to fall asleep. Sherlock stayed quiet, lost, for the most part, inside his own head. He thought back to the night he had seen the "Hound."

_Sherlock was already in bed, laying on his side with his back to the door. He had calmed down a bit, coming up with several theories as to what had actually occurred out on the moor. He was still terrified, not of some demon dog, but that John wouldn't come back that night. He knew that he had crossed a line and hurt his friend, his only friend. He just hoped that John wouldn't respond to his mistake by going home with Henry Knight's therapist._

_Sherlock breathed a small sigh of relief when he heard the door open and John come in, but he tensed almost immediately after. They had a double room and the beds were small. Sherlock wouldn't blame John for wanting to take his own bed under normal circumstances, and especially not after what he had said, but he still really wanted John to be close that night. _

_He listened as John got ready for bed. It was a familiar routine, and Sherlock had always found comfort in the home-ness of that routine, even before they had started sleeping together. But there was nothing homey about it this time; it seemed like something foreign and completely separate from him. Finally, John finished, but instead of getting into his bed he just stood there. Sherlock held his breath, trying to better hear what John was doing. After a moment John climbed into bed, not saying a word. _

_The silence seemed completely empty and unbearable, making Sherlock feel alone in a way that he hadn't since John had shot the cabbie. Every night since he and John had become a couple Sherlock had made sure to tell John that he loved him before they went to bed. Sherlock was well aware that he was not by any means an easy person to live with, and he knew from experience that he wasn't any better of a boyfriend, so he always wanted to make sure that John knew that no matter how much the detective had screwed up or how difficult he was being, he still, and always would, love John. Sherlock knew that of all the nights that he had said "I love you," it was probably the most important that he say it then, but he was afraid. He was afraid that the feeling would be neither reciprocated nor wanted, that John would finally tell him to piss off. And so he kept silent, simply listening to John's breathing, the rhythm of which told him that John wasn't getting any more sleep than he was. _

_After twenty long minutes of that oppressive silence Sherlock heard John get out of bed and walk across the room. He held his breath, not knowing what to expect, as John stood silently over him. After another minute or so, John pulled back the duvet covering Sherlock and crawled into bed beside him. Sherlock was still tense, still not really understanding what was going on, but John ignored that, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close so that Sherlock's back was pressed against his chest. Both men slowly relaxed, finding comfort int he closeness of the other. After a few minutes Sherlock tentatively intertwined their fingers. He was reassured when John squeezed back instead of pulling away. _

"_I love you," Sherlock whispered quietly, still afraid._

_John sighed before whispering back, his voice full of sadness. "I love you too, Sherlock." When Sherlock woke up the next morning, John was already gone, the bed beside him cold._

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John's voice broke him out of his remembrances.

"Yes?" He asked, keeping his voice calm.

John's hand was already resting on his knee and he gave it a squeeze. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" John asked, his hand still on Sherlock's knee. "You're crying, love."

"What?" Sherlock wiped at his face, surprised to actually find tears. He stared down at the wetness on his hand, glaring at it like it had betrayed him.

"I'm fine, really," he answered, smiling and wiping away the rest of his tears. "My eyes are just dry, I guess."

"Alright," John said after a pause. He began to pull his hand back, but Sherlock caught it in his own, lifting it up and pressing it to his lips. John smiled and Sherlock intertwined their fingers, letting their hands rest on his leg.

A few minutes later John took his phone out of his pocket. After fiddling with it for a few moments, he sighed and put it back. He went back to staring out the window and began drumming his fingers on the arm rest.

"Are you expecting a call?" Sherlock asked, wondering why John was so agitated.

John sighed. "No, it's just that I should call Harry. Today was her and Clara's anniversary; Harry doesn't really do well with anniversaries. I was going to call and make sure she's alright, but my phone's dead: I forgot to charge it last night."

"You could use mine," Sherlock offered.

John quickly shook his head. "No, it's fine. I don't have her number memorized." Before Sherlock had the chance to say anything else the truck began sputtering, and after a few moments the engine cut out entirely and they coasted to a stop. Sherlock groaned and slammed his head back against the headrest.

"What's wrong?" John asked, concerned by the violence of Sherlock's reaction.

"We ran out of petrol," Sherlock answered. "Stupid! I'm so stupid. I should have filled the truck before we left."

"Hey, relax," John said, putting his hand comfortingly on his friend's shoulder. "It's not a big deal; just call someone to come bring us some petrol."

Sherlock nodded, calming down a bit and getting out his phone. "You're right. This is merely inconvenient. I'll just call someone."

Forty five minutes later they were still waiting. Sherlock turned in his seat, so that his back was to the door and he was facing his friend. John had done the same.

"You didn't really want to call your sister," Sherlock said, hoping that he wasn't crossing a line.

"No, not really," John answered, shaking his head. "Clara was the best thing that ever happened to Harry; I don't feel like listening to Harry's drunken ramblings about how much of a bitch she was."

'You really like Clara, didn't you?" Sherlock prompted, wanting to learn more about his past.

John nodded. "Yeah, I did. And I suppose I feel a bit guilty about the whole thing. Clara never would have met Harry if it wasn't for me."

"How do you mean?"

John grinned. "Well, Clara was my girlfriend, back in med school. It was nothing serious, we were just having a bit of fun. Harry came to visit one weekend. By the time she left, I no longer had a girlfriend and she had a new one."

"That must have been - interesting. I'm surprised that you weren't more resentful about it." Sherlock said, smiling.

John shrugged, still smiling. "I told you, Clara and I were just having some fun; it wasn't like I was in love with her or anything. Anyway, I had a new girlfriend by the end of the week, so there wasn't really any harm done."

"By the end of the week, huh?" He replied, smirking. "You must have been quite popular."

John grinned. "Oh definitely; I've never had a problem getting women. Well, I never had any problems with woman until I met you, but to be fair, being in love with your crazy, gorgeous, male flatmate does tend to put a damper on dates." Sherlock laughed, his cheeks coloring just a bit; John happily joined in.

When they quieted down John cleared his throat and asked what he had been wondering all morning. "Sherlock, what the hell are we doing out here? You hate the country, you're not overly fond of driving, and if you honestly thing that I believe, even for a second, that you were _crying_ because of dry eyes, then we need to have a serious discussion about just how much of an idiot you think I am. So, tell me what's going on here."

Sherlock sighed. "I just thought it would be nice to drive. Isn't that what normal couples do? Go on drives, or take road trips, or whatever."

"Sherlock, what is it with you and this new found obsession with us doing "normal couple" things? I'm not even entirely sure what that means, so why don't you just tell me what's going on."

The detective sighed again before answering. "I just don't want you to feel like you're missing out on something."

"What the hell would I be missing out on?" John asked, still confused and more than a little concerned.

Sherlock shrugged. "How should I know? That's the problem. I just know that I put you through a lot: dragging you to crime scenes and the worst parts of London and then leaving you there, playing the violin at all hours of the night, the experiments, body parts in the fridge, and I'm sure there's more that I don't even realize. I know that I'm a shit boyfriend; I just wanted you to get something good and normal out of this. But apparently I can't even do that right."

"Oh Sherlock," John said reaching over putting his hand on the back of his friend's neck, rubbing his cheek with his thumb. "I don't even know where to start. What we've got is good; it's very good. Yeah, sometimes there's a bit of bad, but it's only a very, very small part of what we have, and, for the record, it goes both ways. I screw up too; you know that. I love you, and I want _you_, the real you. We don't have to be anything we're not. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling a little. "Got it. And the truck we called just got here; finally."

"Good," John said, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before getting out to meet the driver.

Fifteen minutes later the driver was gone and Sherlock and John were left standing next to their truck. It was almost two and they still had more than four hours left to go. Sherlock was obviously still annoyed by the situation, but he seemed to be a little less frustrated now that the problem was solved.

"Hey, do you want to know what part of my plan for driving home was?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the side of the truck.

John grinned. "I always want to hear your plans."

Sherlock looked away and tried to keep his voice nonchalant, hoping that John wouldn't find it too ridiculous. "I thought that I might teach you how to drive. It's only practical that you know."

John grinned. "Wow, that's definitely an interesting plan."

"I know it's a manual but I don't think it should be too difficult. So what do you say? You want to give it a go?" He asked, working hard to make it sound like he didn't care either way.

John shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

Sherlock broke into a grin. "Great. Get in; there's no time like the present."

It started out fairly rough, but John got the hang of it relatively quickly. After he got up to speed he didn't really have to change gears, so all he had to focus on was the actual driving; there weren't even very many other cars on the road.

"Hey Sherlock," John said about half an hour later, "why were you crying earlier?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I was just thinking; don't worry about it."

John sighed. "Sherlock, I've seen you do a lot of thinking, but I've never seen you cry because of it. What the hell were you thinking about?"

"Have you ever noticed that you say my name a lot?" Sherlock asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"Yes actually, I have," John answered quickly. "It was near the top of the list of signs that I was in love with you. Don't change the subject."

"You made a list?" Sherlock was honestly interested now.

John nodded with a sigh, recognizing the genuine curiosity. "Yes. I called it "Signs that John Watson is an Idiot Who's Fallen in Love with his Best Mate." I like lists; they help the facts make sense. And yes, before you ask, I did actually write it down. I'll show you it to you when we get home."

Sherlock grinned. "I've always said your name a lot too, John." John could hear the slight insecurity in Sherlock's voice, as if he was trying to prove something.

"I know," John answered. "But I never made a list of signs that you were in love with me; it seemed too much like wishful thinking. Now, tell me why you were crying." John had turned to look at Sherlock, hoping that that would provoke an actual answer.

"The road," Sherlock said, his voice slightly nervous.

He frowned. "What?"

"The road, John! Watch the road!" Sherlock yelled, panic rising. John's eyes snapped back to the road, letting out a stream of swearwords as he tried to bring the drifting car back onto the road. But the shoulder they had drifted onto was muddy and all John's over-correcting served to do was send them spinning. After a few breathless seconds that seemed like an eternity and left both men's hearts pounding they stopped, the engine stalled.

"Fuck," John breathed, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Sherlock blinked a few times, taking deep breaths to calm himself down, but he still sounded a little panicked when he spoke. "Are you alright John?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Are you okay? Are you sure you want me to keep driving?"

"I'm fine," he answered. "Just get us back on the road; I'm sure it'll be fine." John nodded and started the truck again. He managed to get it into gear, but the tires just spun in the mud.

After a few minutes he sighed and cut the engine. "Shit. We're stuck. It won't move." He paused and then added, "I'm really sorry."

Sherlock waived off the apology, deeming it unnecessary. "Let me give it a try. Maybe I'll have more luck." John agreed and they both got out to switch places.

Sherlock had his phone in his hand as he walked around the front of the truck, ready to ask John to find someone who could give them a tow. He was walking quickly, as usual, and not really paying attention to the ground beneath his feet, which is how he ended up slipping in the mud, falling flat out on his back. His phone slipped out of his hand but he just laid there for a few moments, the breath having been knocked out of his lungs.

"Sherlock, are you hurt?" John asked, hurrying to his friend's side.

The detective shook his head. "I'm fine." He took John's offered hand and pulled himself up. He sighed heavily. "I dislike being dirty John."

"I know," John said compassionately. "But at least you have a change of clothes, and you weren't wearing your coat."

"But it's in my hair, John," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously close to a whine.

"I know," the doctor answered understandingly. "As soon as we get the truck unstuck we'll stop somewhere and I'll help you wash it out." Sherlock smiled, thankful that John wasn't going to mock him for his apparent vanity - he had very good reasons for disliking filth. Just then he remembered his phone and went down to his knees to find it. Moments later he stood up and let out a rather impressive string of curses.

"What's wrong?" John asked, frowning.

"My phone is dead," Sherlock answered, pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes, ignoring the fact that he was just getting more mud on his face.

The doctor reached up and gently wrapped his hands around his friend's wrists. "It's okay, Lock; it's just a phone. It's not the end of the world - we'll replace it when we get home."

The detective slowly lowered his hands. "Did you just call me Lock?"

John nodded smiling. "Yep. Does it bother you?"

"Not nearly as much as it should," he answered, cautiously returning the smile. "We can't call for a tow now."

John shrugged. "I'm sure someone will drive by eventually." Years later, when the two looked back on their, rather eventful, lives together, both would agree that that was one of the most ridiculous things that John had ever said.

* * *

><p>AN -

I thought I should give a general timeline. Sherlock and John got together during A Scandal in Belgravia, sometime after they find out Irene's not dead, but before she comes back for the phone. This takes place directly after Baskerville.

Inspiration for this is comes from Parodys.

In the next chapter I'll pick up where I left off, it was just a bit much for one chapter. As always reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N:

This chapter is the first time Sherlock and John have sex in a Jacuzzi.

The credit for this idea goes to Eryberrie.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>"Did you pick the most deserted road you could find on purpose, or is this just a happy coincidence?" John asked, smiling to show that he wasn't really upset.<p>

"I read somewhere that taking the back roads was more romantic," Sherlock answered sheepishly.

John laughed, shaking his head. "Well, you've taken me to worse places. Like that skip two weeks ago."

The detective made a moue of distaste. "I hate skips. Although, at least then we could have caught a cab; we've been sitting here for two hours and have yet to see a car. I'm never leaving London again."

He rolled his eyes. "You know that as soon as you hear of an interesting case you'll dash off again without a second thought."

He gave his partner a whithering look. "There is mud _caked_ in my hair, John; that will definitely encourage second thoughts."

"Well, this has been fun, bonding and all," John said once their laughter had died down, "but enough is enough."

"What?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

He sighed. "I'm bored out of my mind; five more minutes in this car and I'm going to start shooting something. I'm going to start walking. I think there's a better chance of me finding civilization than there is of a car driving past us. You can stay here if you want, but I for one can't stand another minute in this truck." Without waiting for a response he opened the door and got out. After a moment Sherlock hurried after him, making sure to lock the doors behind him. John smirked up at him.

"The truck is boring," Sherlock said, shrugging and keeping his eyes focused straight ahead.

John smiled, nudging him with his shoulder. "You don't have to do that you know."

"Do what?" He asked, still looking straight ahead.

"Act like you don't care," John answered. "You say things or do things or ask for things and then you try and act like you don't care what my response is. It's okay to care." He just gave John a small smile, not saying anything. They continued to walk in silence.

About fifteen minutes later John cleared his throat nervously. "Sherlock, please tell me what you were thinking about earlier."

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

John sighed. "I'll let it go if you ask me to; if you tell me that it's none of my business or that it's too personal for you to talk about. I understand that and I'll let it go. But Sherlock, I'm worried about you and I'd really like it if you would tell me."

He was silent for a long time before answering. "I was thinking about the other night. When you came back after talking to Henry Knight's therapist."

"And that made you cry?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm not really sure why; I hadn't even realized that I was crying. It's just that, I don't know, I was so afraid that night. Not of the Hound, by the time I went to bed I had realized that I had most likely been drugged, but I was afraid that you weren't going to come back after what I said. I thought that you might go home with the therapist; I wouldn't have blamed you."

John stopped walking. "Sherlock, you have to believe me, I wouldn't do that. Not to you. Please tell me you know that."

"I know that John, I do," he answered quickly. "I know that, logically. But sometimes I don't always act logically — especially when it comes to you."

He sighed. "Sherlock, I promise you, I will never cheat on you. Ever. Not for any reason. There is nothing that you could do that would make me do that to you. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, his face solemn. "I understand."

"Good." John coughed and started walking again. Sherlock fell into step beside him, not continuing the conversation.

"I really am sorry about this," Sherlock said twenty minutes later when they still hadn't seen any sign of other people.

"It's not your fault, I'm the one who ran us into the mud," John answered, his voice calm.

He sighed. "But it's my fault that we're out here at all. We should have taken the train."

"You were just trying to do something nice," he replied. Sherlock shrugged and they kept walking.

John cleared his throat a few moments later. "So what's brought on all this "normal couple" stuff anyway?"

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "I told you; I don't want you to feel like you're missing out on anything."

"Yeah," he said, "but why now? This is the first time you've showed any sign of our - unusualness - bothering you. In fact, I was under the impression that you quite liked that what we have is a bit nuts. So why do you want to change that now?"

"Because I don't want you leave," Sherlock bit out, his mouth not checking with his brain before speaking.

John frowned. "What do you mean? I'm not going anywhere."

"Maybe not this time," he answered, figuring that since he had started this conversation he might as well finish it. "But what about next time, or the time after that? You know me John, I'm an arrogant ass and I'm going to hurt you again and again; not on purpose, of course it's not on purpose, but I'll do it all the same. I just thought that if I could at least act normal every once in a while, then, maybe, you'd stay through the not so normal."

His friend sighed and stopped walking, waiting for his companion to do the same. "Sherlock, we need to talk."

The detective tensed. "About what?"

"You trust me, right?" John asked, forcing eye contact.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes panicked. "Yes, of course I do."

"Then you need to trust me to stay," the doctor answered. "Every time something remotely not good happens, your first thought is that I'm leaving." John reached out and grabbed the id tags that his friend had underneath his shirt. "Sherlock, I'm not leaving - I've promised you that. Why can't you believe me?"

The detective reached up and encircled John's wrist. "John, I'm trying, believe me I am, but it's not easy. No one has ever stayed, ever."

"We lived together for over a year and I didn't leave, and that was before the perk of actually being able to sleep with you," John said, giving him a small smile.

Sherlock nodded, "And I want to believe that you'll stay - I really, really do - but it's hard when almost every one I've ever let get close has run screaming; my own parents sent me away when I was fifteen. John, I'm doing the best I can, but I don't know how to do this."

John sighed, reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheek with his free hand. "Look, I don't have much more of an idea of how this works than you do."

"Because I'm a man?" Sherlock asked, the sneer that John half expected replaced by a confused frown.

He shook his head. "No, that's not it. I don't know how to do this … relationship thing. This is only the second serious relationship I've had, ever. And I'm sure it's fairly obvious that the first one didn't end well. I don't really know how to do this either. But it's okay because we never know what we're doing. We generally just run a lot and make it up as we go along, so that's what we'll do with this. And it'll work, because we'll be doing it together. But please, no more of this normal crap; I don't think it's going to work for us."

Sherlock nodded, cracking a smile. "That sounds good to me." John went up on his toes in order to give his friend a quick kiss before they turned and started walking again.

The pair walked in silence. They hadn't gone very far before they gave up on the idea of staying to the side, opting for the more comfortable terrain of the, apparently, deserted road. John kept looking at his partner out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock's back was straight and his hands were stuffed into his coat pockets; he was staring straight ahead. About five minutes later John cautiously slipped his hand into his friend's pocket, pressing his hand against his friend's.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his shoulders tensing. "What are you doing?"

John jerked his hand back. "Sorry. Forget about it."

"No," he said, still tense. "What were you doing?"

He shrugged. "Nothing, I just thought that since no one was around we might…" He broke off with a sigh before picking up again. "But it's fine. PDA isn't your thing; sorry to have bothered you."

Sherlock frowned, but his shoulders relaxed a bit. "You were trying to hold my hand?"

"Yeah," John answered with a nod. "Yeah I was, but don't worry about it. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It won't happen again."

The detective hesitantly reached out and linked his hand with John's. "Well I was rather hoping it would." He punctuated what he was saying with a squeeze of his hand. "This is nice." John smiled, his stomach flipping in a way that holding hands hadn't cause since he was fourteen and he had invited Stacy Hoover to the school dance.

John purposefully brushed his friend's shoulder. "You know, I really do love those jeans. It's almost worth cleaning mud out of your hair just to see you in them."

Sherlock's cheeks flushed. "Thank you; although there are easier ways to get me into them than mud."

"How about getting you out of them?" John asked, smirking up at his friend. Sherlock's cheeks grew even redder and he coughed but didn't answer him.

A few moments later Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke again. "Can I ask you a question?"

John nodded. "Of course."

"You said that this was your second serious relationship. What was the first?" He asked, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

"It was back in uni," John answered. "Her name was Mary Morstan. We dated for a little over two years."

"What happened?" He asked, nothing but curiosity in his voice.

John shrugged. "I proposed; she didn't think that our relationship was that serious, so she broke up with me because we obviously had different ideas about where our relationship was going."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, his voice sincere.

John shrugged again. "It was a long time ago."

"Can I ask you another question?" He asked, still sounding a bit nervous.

John smirked up at him. "You just did." Sherlock rolled his eyes and John continued. "Look, you don't have to ask me if you can ask me questions. We're partners; your entitled to know about my past."

Sherlock gave him a small smile before asking his question. "Why'd you wait so long before finding another serious relationship? I was under the impression that you were looking for a relationship."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes. "If I was really looking for a relationship, then I wouldn't have let you get away with half of what you pulled on my dates. I mean, you've literally hijacked my dates and I let you get away with it. I wasn't looking for anything special." He sighed before continuing. "I loved Mary, I really did, but that wasn't what I had been originally looking for with her. I mean, I never thought I'd fall in love - it was never something that I wanted. I thought she was the one, you know, and when she left me I figured that that was it, there'd never be anyone else." He paused and smiled up at his partner. "I'm really glad that I was wrong."

He returned his smile. "Me too."

"You know, I have been wondering something myself," John said. "What was your thing with Irene Adler? Did you really have a thing for her?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to put it. "She was just something shiny - like a new toy in the sandbox. She was interesting, not boring, clever, and I was fascinated - I really was. But I told you before, girlfriend's aren't really my area. And even if they were, by the time Irene came around I was too in love with you by that point to do anything about it. Plus, the woman manipulates people with sex for a living, and, despite what my brother might think, I'm not stupid enough to get involved in that."

"In love with me, eh?" John said with a smile. "And when exactly did that happen?"

"Honestly?" He asked, not waiting for a reply. "Around the time you shot Jefferson Hope and then let me take you out for Chinese."

John chuckled. "Really? That long ago?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yep. So what about you?"

"Well I'm not really sure when I fell in love with you," he said, "but I realized it when I met Irene Adler in that warehouse on New Years. I suppose you could say that it was an epiphany."

He gaped at him. "But that was only a few weeks before we got together."

John nodded. "Yeah, lucky me; I didn't have to wait too long. Why is that so surprising?"

"I just thought that you would have had more of a sexual identity crisis," he answered honestly.

The doctor shrugged. "I didn't really see the point; there are far more traumatic aspects to living with you than the fact that my sexuality isn't quite as black and white as I had previously thought. Besides, I never dreamed you'd feel the same way, so I figured that panicking over it was a moot point. By the time I realized it wasn't quite as unrequited as I thought, there were a few other things on my mind."

Sherlock grinned. "That's actually, very logical."

"Hey, it happens sometimes," John answered, grinning back.

"Just out of curiosity," Sherlock said, still smiling; "if you had to hazard a guess, when do you think you started loving me?"

"Why does it matter?" He asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Walking is boring and I'm curious."

"Alright," he said with a nod. After a pause he answered. "Well, I guess it was probably at The Pool. That's when I realized that I cared about you more than I would just a normal friend." Sherlock nodded but the smile slipped off his face and he went back to staring at the ground in front of him.

John squeezed his hand. "You really don't like thinking about that night, do you?"

"It wasn't one of my finer moments," he answered quietly.

He nodded. "Arranging a meeting with a deranged psychopath in a darkened swimming pool wasn't your best plan."

"No, that was necessary," the detective answered. "Although, I wish I had made provisions to make sure that you didn't end up strapped to a bomb."

"I appreciate the sentiment," John answered. "But if that's not the problem, then what is?" The muscles in Sherlock's jaw tensed and for a moment John was afraid that he wouldn't answer him.

"I thought you were him, John," Sherlock said quietly, still looking resolutely away from his partner. "When you first showed up I thought you were Moriarty." John squeezed his hand reassuringly, walking a bit closer to his friend.

"You know, I always thought that you did," he answered, his voice surprisingly pleasant. "It was the way you looked at me when I first stepped out into the open."

"You knew?" He asked incredulously. "I always thought that if you knew you'd think that I didn't trust you."

John shook his head. "I never thought that; it was rather obvious that you trusted me. Although, I did wonder something else."

"What?"

He coughed nervously. "Were you ever disappointed that I wasn't him? Even just a little bit?"

Sherlock stopped and stared down at his friend, shaking his head. "No, God no. You're my best friend, John, and I thought you betrayed me, that it had all been a lie, that you had never even liked me. Why on earth would I be disappointed that that wasn't true?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "Wouldn't it be better if your best friend was clever, like you? I'm just ordinary, boring."

He shook his head violently. "You're not ordinary, John: you're good, and that makes you special."

John sighed and started walking again, fighting the urge to pull his hand back from Sherlock's. "I'm not that good Sherlock; I'm really not."

"Yes you are John," Sherlock answered, his voice almost pleading. "Of course you're good."

The soldier shook his head. "Maybe you only want to think so. You said it yourself; there's no such thing as hero's, and if there were I certainly wouldn't be one of them."

"Maybe I was wrong," the detective whispered after a moment of tense silence. "It's happened before."

John raised Sherlock's hand and pressed it gently against his lips. "Not this time, love. You make me good, but it's not really a natural state for me."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I hope you never do, love," he answered, giving his friend a sad smile. Sherlock frowned in confusion but thankfully he didn't push it.

"Wait," Sherlock said a few minutes later, "you thought that I had a - thing - for Adler."

John nodded. "Yep. It seemed logical."

"But after she showed up in my bed you left me alone with her."

"Yep."

"But we were dating by then."

"Yep."

"And you left me alone with her."

"Yep."

"But you thought I was interested in her?"

"I thought you didn't like repetition."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm bored. Answer the question."

John sighed, sounding slightly annoyed. "Yes; I left you alone in the flat with Irene even though I thought that you were attracted to her. Happy?"

The detective frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" The doctor asked, afraid that he already knew where his partner was taking the conversation.

"If you were convinced that I wanted to sleep with Adler, and you knew that she was flirting with me, then why did you leave us alone together?"

He gave a half shrug. "Because I knew that you love me and I trusted you not to do anything."

After a moment of staring Sherlock gasped. "You're lying. Why are you lying to me John?"

"What?" John asked, his jaw twitching almost imperceptibly. "I'm not lying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes you are. Your right eye twitches slightly when you lie to me, not to everyone, just me. Sentiment I suppose."

"Brilliant," he huffed. "That really is brilliant."

"So what's the truth?" He asked, fighting back insecurity.

John sighed and hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I did trust you not to do anything, mostly. But on the off chance that something did happen, then I figured that I'd have it coming."

"You'd have it coming? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He asked, his frown deepening.

He shrugged. "I told you, I haven't always been a good person. I figured that if you slept with Irene, then it'd be a kind of payback."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock answered, his voice verging on harsh.

John shrugged again. "Well it does to me, which is what's important."

"Would you have left if I did have sex with her?" He asked, his voice surprisingly quiet. The doctor sighed and briefly closed his eyes.

"No," he whispered, "I would have stayed."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, obviously confused. He seemed to know that he wasn't going to get much of an answer to that question, so he sighed and asked another. "What would I have to do to make you leave?" John hesitated, not sure if it was in his best interests to answer that.

Finally, the doctor decided to answer his partner. "Tell me to. Unless you tell me that you don't want me anymore, I'm not leaving."

Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "That's really not very healthy John." John just shrugged. Sherlock shook his head. "John, you have to leave me if I hurt you. Promise me you'll leave."

"It's my life Sherlock," John answered; "I am fully aware of what type of pain I can stand, and what I can't. I can deal with whatever you give me, leaving you would be much more difficult."

"That's not healthy, John," Sherlock repeated.

He shrugged. "What about this strikes you as healthy, Sherlock? Because it's not healthy to stick around when your flatmate brings home severed heads, or gets you shot at on a somewhat regular basis. And it's definitely not healthy to kill someone for a man you just met, or to actually move in with him after his "archenemy" kidnaps, threatens, and then attempts to bribe you. So no, Sherlock, this isn't healthy, but it never has been. Why do you think I stopped going to my therapist?" When Sherlock didn't say anything John sighed.

"Look, don't worry about it. I'm not obsessed or really all that possessive. I'm not crazy - if you want out, then just tell me and I'll go." He gave his partner's hand one last squeeze before pulling it back.

"Hey, hey, hey. Who said anything about wanting out?" Sherlock asked, grabbing John by the shoulders and forcing him to stop walking. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I haven't scared you away then?" John asked with a self-deprecating smile.

Sherlock shook his head, giving his friend a small smile. "No, you didn't scare me away."

He nodded. "Good, so I won't go anywhere until you get bored with me." He leaned in to gave his friend a sweet kiss on the lips and then turned and started walking again. Sherlock stayed rooted to his spot, staring after the doctor with his mouth hanging open.

John stopped and turned around. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Bored?" Sherlock asked, disbelief obvious in his voice. "You think I'm going to just - get bored with you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

The detective blinked a few times. "_Maybe? _What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John grit his teeth and forced himself not to roll his eyes. John really didn't want have this particular conversation, ever. Unfortunately, he also recognized that the likelihood of Sherlock letting it go was about the same as Sherlock and Anderson becoming best friends who skipped around and sang show tunes together.

The soldier squared his shoulders. "It _means_ that you're interested now, very interested; I don't doubt that, and it's great, it really is. But that doesn't necessarily mean that you will be forever, and that's okay. You get bored, Sherlock, that's just what you do, love, and I get it - more than you know, I get it. And I don't blame you for it. Honestly, I love you, but I give in about a 50/50 shot whether or not you get bored with me."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times before finally speaking. "That is such complete and utter bullshit."

"What?" John asked, shocked by the uncharacteristic vulgarity.

"The idea that I'm going to just get bored with you is the most profound piece of bullshit I've ever heard," the detective answered with a sneer. "The mere thought is insipid. I've always known you were an idiot, but I had hoped that you were slightly less moronic than the average population. I'm not going to just get _bored_ with you. You're like crime scenes or the violin. This isn't a 50/50 shot, John; this is the rest of my life. How could I possibly get bored with you? You're amazing and infuriating and insufferable I can never quite figure you out. I'm never going to get bored with you. God, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

John slowly grinned. "That might just be the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not sweet, it's the truth."

He reached out and slipped his arm around his friend's waist. "I know, which is why it's sweet. You know, I never would have thought that being called a moron would be so flattering."

"So are we done with this getting bored nonsense?" Sherlock asked, fighting back a smile of his own.

His friend nodded. "Yeah, I think we're done."

"Good," he replied, leaning down to kiss his friend.

The sun had had long since set and Sherlock and John were still still walking. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and neither of them had eaten since breakfast. John's leg had started to hurt and even though he was doing his best to avoid actually limping, Sherlock noticed that his steps were becoming more and more uneven. His posture was becoming more military and the muscles in his jaw were obviously tightening. All in all, he looked rather stoic.

"Look, I really am sorry about all of this." Sherlock said, breaking the silence between them.

John sighed, chuckling a bit. "You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I really wish you'd stop apologizing. Because this isn't your fault."

"It's just that I know you get tetchy when you don't get to eat regularly," he replied guiltily.

The doctor smiled. "That's when we're in London and there's a shop just down every block. Then it's just annoying because you won't stop for ten minutes. Now, it's merely inconvenient and there's nothing you can do about it, so don't worry about it. I did invade Afghanistan - I'm not going to wilt away because of a couple missed meals and a little stroll." Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.

A few minutes later they came to the top of a hill. Looking down they saw a tiny little town. There were lights in a few of the buildings, but for the most part it looked rather sleepy. Both men stopped and stared down at it, awe and slight disbelief evident on their faces. After a moment they started walking again. After a few steps John's leg finally decided that it had had enough. It buckled and only Sherlock's quick reflexes kept him from falling. After a few moments John was able to get his footing again and he shrugged off his friend's help.

"Do you think a restaurant will still be open down there?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to sound unconcerned by the return of his best friend's limp.

John quirked a half smile. "If there's not I'll help you rob one."

Sherlock grinned. "Deal. Although I don't think Mycroft would be too willing to help us again so soon if we get caught."

"Don't worry about that," he answered, trying to pretend that he wasn't gritting his teeth against the pain. "I've got connections of my own." Sherlock just laughed.

The hotel they were staying at was definitely one of the stranger ones John had been in. And so instead of a room, they had rented a small shack of a "cottage." It was small, one room with a bed and a television and a small bathroom. There was a sliding glass door to the side of the room, leading to a patio and a hot tub. John promised himself that he would take a nice long soak, after dinner. He lay down on the bed, his legs hanging off the end, and waited. Sherlock was in the shower; the man had been practically clawing at his skin wanting to make sure the mud was all off, so John didn't really mind waiting the half an hour it would take him to wash his hair.

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed and smiling. "That feels much better; thank you for waiting."

"No problem," John answered sitting up and pushing to his feet. His leg still hurt but it wasn't as bad as before and he barely winced. Sherlock, of course, still caught it.

"It's psychosomatic," he whispered, his smile fading.

John rolled his eyes. "I was aware of that the first time you told me. I haven't forgotten since."

"Then why are you limping?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding pained.

He shrugged. "Sherlock, we just spent the past six hours or so walking; I'm tired and hungry. I'll be find after a meal and a good night's sleep. Now, let's go before the diner closes."

"Alright, let's go," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat.

Dinner was really good; though John couldn't tell you if that was because of the food or because of how hungry he was. Sherlock was back to his usual self - no longer shamming normal - and John was immensely relieved by that. They sat across the table from each other, talking and laughing just as they always did. Sherlock's eyes flit around the room, but they always came back to John. Most would think that he was being rude and dismissive, but John knew better and it made him smile. Neither of them had ever been overly demonstrative in public, and for all intensive purposes they would have looked just looked like two mates having dinner if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock insisted on stealing food off of John's plate. John kind of liked it that way; he liked the feeling of having this secret part of Sherlock all to himself. But he liked it even better when they walked back to their room with their arms linked in a way that definitely spoke of more than friendship.

They got back to their room and John grinned. "I'm going to go try out that hot tub, since we're paying for it. Care to join me?"

Sherlock's forehead creased, his cheeks coloring almost imperceptibly. "Neither of us have swim trunks, John."

John rolled his eyes. "It's not like we really need any. We're the only ones here. Don't tell me you're getting shy?" The flush on Sherlock's cheeks darkened and John smiled disarmingly, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it. If you don't want to, then it's fine. You can go to bed and I'll just be a little while. I promise to keep the noise down." John could see that for whatever reason Sherlock was out of his comfort zone and decided not to push the matter. He gave his friend a quick kiss and then went out to make sure the jacuzzi was ready.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the towel around his waist. He quietly slid the door open and stepped out into the cool night air. He kept his eyes trained on John, who was sitting in the hot tub with his eyes closed and his head resting back against the side. Sherlock draped his towel over the back of a chair next to John's. He quickly climbed into the tub, sitting diagonally across from John and drawing his knees up to his chest. He continued watching John, wondering what the point of all of this was.

John opened his eyes and smiled. "Hey there; I'm glad you decided to join me after all."

"I was bored," he answered, trying not to look nervous.

The doctor grinned. "Why are you all the way over there?" Sherlock shrugged, but he moved closer when John gestured him over.

The two sat in companionable silence, their hands linked underneath the water. Sherlock was still bored, he really didn't see the point of just sitting in a bath outside, but he'd rather be bored with John than bored by himself. John had closed his eyes again, so Sherlock was able to observe him freely. John was so familiar to him, but he never got tired of trying to memorize every scar and every wrinkle. After his cursory examination he focused on the tattoo on his right bicep.

The tattoo was the RAMC emblem in full color. He had first gotten it right after he graduated from basic training, but it had been recolored before he left for his last deployment, so none of the colors appeared faded. John had always been rather fond of the tattoo, but Sherlock was utterly fascinated by it. It spoke of a time before the nightmares and flashbacks, when he was still young and hopeful. Sherlock reached out carefully traced the lines of the image with his index finger.

John opened his eyes and smiled. "Like that do you?"

"It's intriguing," Sherlock answered, not stopping the motion of his finger.

John reached over and grabbed a hold of Sherlock's hip. "You must be bored, sitting here without doing anything."

"Mildly," Sherlock answered, maintaining the eye contact that John had instigated.

He smirked. "Do you want me to entertain you?"

"I don't think I would object," he answered, giving a small smile of his own.

John's smirk transformed into a grin as he slid his hand down and hooked it underneath Sherlock's knee. He pulled gently, bringing his friend's leg over his lap. Sherlock came with it, resting on John's thighs. He still looked a bit skittish, although John didn't know why this was so far out of his friend's comfort zone. He thumbed circles over Sherlock's hip, trying to soothe him. Their other hands were still linked, and Sherlock was squeezing his fingers tightly.

Sherlock was trying his best to keep his heart from racing and his breathing normal. He knew that there was no real reason for him to be panicked, but he wasn't really able to stop it. He couldn't help but think about the last time he had been in a similar situation. He had been high as a kite, giggling as the others passed him around like a plaything. There had been so many hands and mouths and tongues pushing and pulling at him that he wouldn't have been able to tell which appendage belonged to whom even if he had cared enough to try. He woke up the next day sore and hungover, feeling more dirty and disgusting than he ever had before. He came back to the present wondering, not for the first time, how he had allowed himself to be so stupid in his youth.

John's hand tightened around his hip. "Hey, are you alright? You look a little, preoccupied."

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured him. When John still looked skeptical, he leaned forward and pressed an open mouthed kiss against his tattoo, tonguing the ink. John huffed out a laugh and his fingers flexed around Sherlock.

Sherlock disentangled their fingers and slid his hand up to clutch at the back of John's neck, simultaneously bringing their lips together. He made a sound that might have been a small moan as their tongues met, sliding delightfully against each other. Both of John's hands were on Sherlock's hips now and he pulled, grinding them together and drawing out a groan from both men. The water made their skin slick and their bodies slipped together in a way that lit Sherlock's nerves on fire. John had a firm grip on his hips, his hands clenching and un-clenching, practically kneading the muscle there, and Sherlock found the sensation remarkably arousing. Their positioning was somewhat awkward, the seat not nearly big enough for both of them, but they were both hard and wanting and neither was about to complain. As much as he loved the push of John's body against his, Sherlock knew that if they stayed like this for too long someone was going to end up with a muscle cramp somewhere, so he confidently reached down and wrapped his long fingers around both of their cock's. John's head fell back and he hissed at the sensation. Sherlock leaned in and kissed him again, biting and sucking at his lips. Before long, the they had both become too uncoordinated to continue kissing and were just panting into each other's mouths. John was still kneading at his hips and seemed to be trying to pull his friend even closer. Sherlock's knees were already baning against the side of the tub, but he tightened his grip and twisted his wrist, bringing them both to completion.

As soon as they had caught their breath, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. "How's your leg?" He moved to get off of his lap, just in case, but John held him firmly in place.

"It's fine," John answered with a smile. "In fact, it's much better now." When Sherlock returned his smile he continued. "Is the shower big enough for the both of us, or will we have to take turns?"

Sherlock smirked. "There's plenty of room for two, if you don't mind being close together."

He rolled his eyes. "When have I ever minded you invading my personal space?"

"Good point," he acknowledged with a nod. "Was that on that list of yours?"

John nodded, smiling. "Yes, as a matter of fact it was. Now, my fingers are starting to prune, so if you would kindly get off me, we should probably head inside now." Sherlock agreed, giving him one last kiss before sliding off his lap and standing up. He felt extremely satisfied as he watched John walk back into their room without any trace of his limp.


	10. Chapter 10

One of the first things that John realized after moving into a flat with Sherlock Holmes was that it was going to be next to impossible to keep anything a secret. And so he decided to lay two very important ground rules. One - there was a locked box underneath John's bed; Sherlock was never, under any circumstances to touch it. Two - John would leave every Sunday afternoon for a few hours, giving himself a break from the craziness that was life with the world's only Consulting Detective; Sherlock was not to follow him or interrupt him for anything other than an actual, life threatening emergency. If either of those rules were broken then John would move out, immediately. Sherlock liked John, even then, and he knew that he was unlikely to find someone who would be a better flatmate, let alone someone who was willing to assist him with cases. And so he agreed.

The rules didn't change after they became a couple; the box was still off limits and John still disappeared for two or three hours every Sunday. Sherlock figured that just because they were shagging it didn't make him any easier to live with, and that it was understandable that John still needed his weekly break. But Sherlock was wrong. John didn't leave because he needed a break from Sherlock, but rather because he was trying to keep a secret from him. Every Sunday, John went and sat in a cafe and made a phone call. Originally it had just been the desire to have some part of his life that wasn't an open book to his flatmate, but after they became more than flatmates, even when they were just friends, it was merely a secret because he didn't know how to explain the truth to Sherlock.

When John was thirteen and Harry was seventeen, their Aunt Rose, their mother's sister, came and took them to live with her. She was kind and sweet and taught them both that it was unnecessary to flinch or steel themselves every time someone reached out to touch them. Harry had only lived there for a year, and by that point she was far too angry for their aunt's kindness to do much good, but John had thrived under Rose's tender care. She had helped put him through university, and then medical school, and he had joined the army in hopes of making her proud. When he was deployed, she was the only one back home he kept in contact with, and after being invalided out he had promised to call her at least once a week. And so every Sunday he snuck off and made a phone call.

This particular Sunday was different, though. It was a little over a week since they had gotten back from Dartmoor, and Sherlock had just finished a relatively quick, but interesting, case for Lestrade that didn't involve working with Anderson the night before, so he was still in the post-case stage where he was sleepy and happy and almost pliant. Rose had called that Friday and left a message on his phone saying that she had a small day trip planned and so he shouldn't call on Sunday. In order to keep up appearances he went out anyway, even though he really would have much rather stayed in with Sherlock. He walked around, did some shopping, and even called Harry, and after an hour and a half he decided it was good enough and went home.

John jogged up the stairs, still feeling pleased with life in general. Sherlock's coat was still in the closet, which meant that the detective was most likely still in the flat; the doctor couldn't help but wonder what his chances were if he tried to coax the detective back into bed. All such thoughts flew out of his head when he walked into the sitting room and saw that the sofa was occupied not by a lanky Consulting Detective in a dressing gown, but rather by his rather small Aunt Rose in one of her best floral print dresses. She looked completely at ease in their disaster zone of a flat. He briefly entertained the idea that maybe Sherlock hadn't seen her yet, but a crash from the kitchen dashed that hope.

"Aunt Rose," he said breathlessly, "what are you doing here?"

She stood up and smiled at him, albeit slightly reproachfully. "John Watson, is that any way to greet your aunt? I thought I raised you better than that."

"Sorry Auntie," he answered, crossing the room to give her a kiss on the cheek. "I'm just surprised to see you."

"Of course you are," she replied happily; "that was rather the point. I wanted to surprise you, and I wanted to meet that man of yours. I can see why you like him so much; he really is very sweet."

"Sweet?" John couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice, but he recovered quickly. "Well yes he is. Where is he, by the way? I feel like I should speak with him."

"That's probably a good idea," she said, still smiling. "He's in the kitchen making tea." John nodded and went to the kitchen without another word, unable to shake the feeling that he had entered some sort of twilight zone.

Sherlock was in the kitchen searching for some sort of biscuits, or at least something that was fit for human consumption, to go with tea. He had changed into a rather nice pair of tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up to his elbows. His hair had been somewhat tamed, but was still rather unruly. He didn't acknowledge that he was no longer alone, but John didn't doubt that his arrival had been noticed. He set his bags down on the table and narrowly avoided sighing; this really wasn't how he imagined his Sunday would go.

"There is nothing to eat in this flat," Sherlock hissed, finally turning around to face his partner; his entire body looked tense and he was glaring furiously.

"That's why I went to the shops," John answered, pulling out a package of biscuits and handing them to Sherlock. He took them without saying anything else and turned back around to face the counter. This time John did sigh as he began to put away the perishables.

"Thank you for doing this," John said, breaking the tense and uncomfortable silence.

"A little advanced warning would have been nice," Sherlock bit out. "I would have liked to make a good impression on your family."

"You did make a good impression," he replied. "She thinks you're sweet."

He snorted. "I thought she was a client, John; I didn't get off the sofa! I wasn't even dressed! And, for the record, nobody thinks I'm sweet."

"I think you're sweet," John answered quietly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well you're crazy."

"Apparently it's hereditary," he replied without hesitation. Sherlock just snorted again and carried the tea tray out into the sitting room.

Tea was awkward. Sherlock was too upset and flustered to be able to carry on much of a conversation; John was too preoccupied with trying to figure out just how much trouble he was in to really pick up the slack; Rose decided that it would be prudent for her to stay quiet as well - she didn't want to make matters worse between the two men by saying the wrong thing. Though after ten minutes of silence interrupted only by surprisingly thorough glaring, she decided that tea had lasted long enough.

She set her tea cup down with a somewhat forced smile. "Well, thank you for the tea - it really was quite lovely - but I think it's time that I get settled for my stay; long trip and all that. Do either of you boys happen to know of a good hotel where I could get a room?" Rose knew from experience that the best way to get John to do something that he didn't particularly want to do was to imply that you could do it on your own.

John shook his head. "That's unnecessary, Aunt Rose. You can take my room. Come on, let me carry your bag for you." He took her suitcase and was leading her up the stairs before anybody had the chance to protest.

Once they were in his room, Rose smiled sweetly at him and patted his cheek. "This really is very sweet of you. I hope I'm not putting you out."

"You're not putting me out at all," he answered, trying to force a convincing smile. "I really don't mind sleeping on the couch."

She rolled her eyes. "John Watson, I'm not a prude. We both know that there's another perfectly good bed in this house and that you aren't going to have to sleep on the couch."

"Aunt Rose," John said with a sigh, "I'm not sure if Sherlock wants me in his bed tonight. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't." He kissed her cheek and left her to get settled before she could argue with him.

When John came back downstairs he found Sherlock sitting at his microscope. He didn't look up, but he tensed visibly when John came in. John sighed and gathered up all of the tea dishes, deciding to at least do something productive while he waited for Sherlock to say what he needed to say. For his part, Sherlock was doing his best to pretend that he was completely absorbed in his work, but even John could see that there wasn't even a slide underneath the microscope. Finally, after about ten minutes, Sherlock got tired of waiting.

"You lied to me," he said, trying his best to sound like he was just stating another fact.

John nodded, turning to face his partner. "Yes, I did. And I'm sorry."

"You made it sound like you left every week because you couldn't stand to be around me any more," Sherlock continued, his voice gaining some more emotion.

He nodded again. "I know; I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that I can trust you, but how am I supposed to trust you when you've been lying about this for as long as I've known you." The detective was obviously distressed by this point and John wanted to reach out and hold him, but he was pretty sure that that sort of thing wouldn't be welcomed.

He clenched his fists to remind himself not to touch. "I know, Sherlock, and I'm sorry."

"Why aren't you arguing?" Sherlock yelled, launching himself to his feet.

John sighed. "Because there's nothing to argue about. You're right; I'm wrong. There's nothing I could say that would justify what I've done. All that I can offer you is an explanation, and I'm happy to give it to you if you want it. But I don't want to stand here and fight with you - especially not when it's not going to get us anywhere. Because even if we do have a huge drag out fight over this, we're going to end up right back here. You're right, I'm wrong, and I am so, so sorry."

"Fine," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what's your explanation, then?"

He shook his head. "You didn't deduce it. I started doing this right after we met, and back then I had no idea that we would be anything more than flatmates and maybe casual friends. You didn't know about Rose and I liked the idea that there was one small part of my life that you didn't know everything about. If I had even suspected back then that you would ever mean as much to me as you do, then of course I would have told you."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, but then why didn't you tell me about it later?"

"And how exactly was I supposed to do that?" He asked, his frustration with the whole situation bleeding through. "Just come home one day and say, oh by the way every Sunday when you think I go out for me-time, I'm really going to go call the aunt that took me away from my abusive father when I was thirteen. That's not exactly an ideal conversation."

He huffed out a breath. "Well even that would have been preferable to her just showing up without warning!"

John rolled his eyes. "Obviously. And if I had known that she was coming, I definitely would have told you. But I didn't know. She didn't give me any warning."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, skeptical. "Why would she just show up unannounced?"

He shrugged. "She has a flair for the dramatic. And she was probably getting tired of listening to me complain about not knowing how to tell you about her every week."

"Every week?" He asked, taking a tiny step forward.

"Every week," John answered. He cautiously put one hand on his partner's waist; when Sherlock didn't flinch away, he grabbed him with his other hand as well and pulled him closer. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you, and I really did want to tell you about this; I just didn't know how. I never meant to hurt you, and I am very sorry that I did."

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. "I love you too."

When Rose came down after about an hour, Sherlock and John were basically back to normal. John was sitting at one end of the couch, reading a book, and Sherlock had appropriated John's laptop again and was stretched out on the couch with it, his bare feet tucked up underneath John's thigh. They both looked up when she came in, but neither really paid much attention when she said that she was going to go see if they had anything in the kitchen that she could make for dinner. Neither really thought about what she had said until a few minutes later when they heard a high pitched yell come from the other room. Both men looked at each other in horror for a brief moment before getting up and running into the kitchen. They found Rose standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the tray of human feet Sherlock had brought home.

She turned and looked at the two men sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you two. I just wasn't quite expecting those."

John smiled at her, gently closing the door and leading her out into the sitting room. "It's alright. Our kitchen should probably come with several warning labels."

Rose cleared her throat. "Well, I didn't really see much food in there. I suppose we should probably go out to eat tonight."

"That would probably be best," Sherlock agreed. "There's a really nice Italian restaurant that we go to, or if you wanted something else, I know several good alternatives."

"Italian would be lovely," she answered with a smile. "I think I'll make a shopping list for you boys, though. You two do need to have actual food in your kitchen." She went back upstairs before either man had the chance to object.

Both Sherlock and Rose had retired to their respective rooms for bed, but John had stayed up under the pretense of wanting to finish a blog post. After the flat had been quiet for twenty minutes he turned out the lights and settled in for a night on the couch. He was almost asleep when he heard someone clearing their throat nearby; he opened his eyes to find Sherlock standing over him. Without a word the detective squeezed himself onto the couch. After a bit of adjusting, Holmes was apparently satisfied with their positioning because he rested his head on John's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" John asked a few minutes later when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to offer any explanation on his own.

His friend sighed. "I am attempting to prove to you that this couch was not designed to sleep two grown men comfortably."

John rolled his eyes. "I accept your hypothesis; you don't need to prove it."

"Then what are you doing?" He asked, his voice bordering on petulant.

He shifted so that they were both more comfortable. "Well, I was trying to sleep."

"But why are you doing that out here?" Sherlock asked, burrowing dealer into his partner's side.

"Because Rose is in my room and I need to sleep somewhere," he answered, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

There was a long pause before he whispered, "Isn't my bed somewhere?"

John sighed. "I didn't think you'd want me there tonight."

"I always want you there," he answered, his voice barely audible. "Even when you've been an idiot." John smiled and pressed a kiss into his friend's hair.

A few moments later Sherlock asked, "So will you come to bed now?"

He nodded. "Yeah, of course I will." Sherlock leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips before leading the way to the bedroom.


	11. Chapter 11

Paste your docu

When John got back from escorting Rose to the train station Mycroft was just leaving. He had no idea what the brothers had discussed, but it had obviously upset Sherlock because he refused to speak and buried himself in a rather explosive experiment. John just let him be, knowing better than to try and interfere when Sherlock was in a Mycroft induced huff. His mood hadn't improved by the time John went to bed, and he got the violin out a little after one am. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had actually played it rather than just making it scream, and at two John moved up to his bedroom in an attempt to dampen the noise with more space; by three thirty he had had enough.

"Sherlock Holmes!" He bellowed, waiting for his partner to turn and acknowledge his presence before continuing. "If you stop that god-awful screeching and play an actual melody of some sort for the rest of the night, I will blow you in the bathroom at Scotland Yard the next time Anderson pisses you off." Sherlock froze, blinking at John with a blank expression for several long moments; John reveled in the silence, however temporary it might be. Eventually Sherlock broke the stillness, not by speaking but by lifting his bow and entering into a beautiful rendition of Bruch's Violin Concerto.

John smiled. "Thank you." Sherlock nodded his head once and John went back upstairs, satisfied that he had gotten his point across.

Thankfully Sherlock's mood was broken the next morning when he found a small article in the back of the newspaper describing what he was sure was the latest in a string of hitherto unconnected murders. Unfortunately, it wasn't one of Lestrade's cases and the DI to whom it belonged was not one of Holmes' fans. To make matters worse, Anderson was the medical examiner on duty and had ruled accidental death. The resulting argument was truly one for the record books, and John stayed out of it as much as he could, not having anything pertinent to add and knowing that it would be easier to keep the two from resorting to violence if he wasn't involved himself. Finally, once both men had digressed to personal insults and Sherlock looked like he was seconds away from either screaming or throwing a punch, John took hold of his friend's arm and gently pulled him away.

John walked silently, but with an obvious purpose. Sherlock, too, stayed quiet, but he was still brooding and was holding his tongue merely because he didn't want other people to hear what he wanted to say to his partner; the detective honestly didn't know what his doctor was doing, but he was too agitated to figure it out and simply followed his friend. Watson veered off the main hallway and steered them through a maze of back corridors before he found a small bathroom that no one ever used. He ushered Sherlock in first before stopping to make sure that the door was locked behind them.

As soon as the door was shut, the words that Sherlock had been holding back began to spill out. "Dear God, how can one man be such a colossal idiot? Accidental death? That's one of the most absurd things I've ever heard! That man was murdered, John, I know it! You believe me don't you?" On that last question Sherlock's voice dropped down to barely above a whisper.

John nodded. "Of course I believe you, Sherlock. But unfortunately that isn't going to change anybody else's mind." Recognizing Sherlock's flushed cheeks as a sign that the man was over heating, he slipped the overcoat off his shoulder and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. Turning back to Sherlock, he placed his hands on his friend's shoulders and pushed until he was pressed against the wall. "Sherlock, relax. I know that you're right, but there's nothing that either of us can do to change what's going on. Anderson is too stubborn to admit that you're right on this one, and Stanton isn't going to open the case without official confirmation. It's not you're fault that they won't listen to you." Sherlock just nodded, obviously hating the situation but willing to acknowledge that John was right.

John smiled and leaned forward to kiss his friend. Sherlock kissed back, but was obviously uncertain of what was going on. John continued to kiss him, lazily licking into his mouth, and didn't pull away until Sherlock had completely relaxed and was no longer concerned about where they were. John gave him one last kiss before dropping easily to his knees.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, his voice breathy but concerned.

John smirked. "Well, last night you kept up your end of the bargain, so now it's my turn to keep up mine."

"I thought you were exaggerating," he answered shakily. "Y-you don't have to do it."

He smiled and opened up his friend's trousers. "But I really want to." Before Sherlock had the chance to say anything John leaned in and lapped at his partner's already hardening cock. Sherlock let out a breathy almost moan and let his head fall back against the wall.

John worked his mouth and hands in tandem, quickly bringing Sherlock fully erect. He had no intention of drawing it out and soon had his friend gasping for breath. He bobbed his head, taking in as much as he could while sucking and using his tongue to tease the head. Before too long, Sherlock was biting his hand as he came. John, still on his knees, opened his trousers and began working his own cock. Sherlock, his mouth hanging open and his skin flushed, watched him with wide eyes. John smirked up at him, more than a little pleased at how the situation had worked out. After he finished he cleaned them both up with toilet paper before standing in front of Sherlock, his hands placed possessively on his friend's narrow waist.

"So, we have two options," John said, his voice purposefully soothing. "We could go back and you can keep arguing with Anderson and Stanton until they either hit you or figure out a plausible reason to arrest us, or we can go home and wait for them to realize that they need you and call for your help. It's completely up to you."

"Let's go home," Sherlock said quietly, half afraid that John would take this as an admission of defeat.

John just smiled. "Alright; we'll stop for lunch on the way." The two shared a kiss before leaving, both men more than pleased with how the morning had gone.

ment here...


	12. Chapter 12

John was in a good mood. He and Sherlock had solved a case that morning, he had made it on time to his afternoon shift at the surgery, and Sherlock had finally finished whatever experiment it was that he had needed the decomposing feet for. When he first walked into the flat after work he found, not his lanky detective, but rather a tall blonde woman standing at the window. After taking a moment to decide that she probably wasn't an assassin sent to kill them, he continued into the room with a smile.

He offered her his hand. "Hello; I'm John Watson."

She shook his hand with an equally warm smile. "I'm Lucy, and can I just say that I am a huge fan of your blog."

"Well thank you," he answered, feeling his ears heat up just a bit at the praise. "But I'm sure that you're here to see Sherlock and not me. I'm not sure where he is at the moment, but you're free to have a seat until he gets back. Would you like some tea while you wait?"

Before the woman had the chance to answer, Sherlock's deep baritone voice interrupted them as the detective entered the sitting room from the kitchen. "John, stop flirting with potential clients. You're the one who's always going on about professionalism."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not flirting - I'm being polite - there's a difference; not that you would know polite if it bit you." He turned to face his partner and was surprised to see the detective carrying a tray with tea things.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, if you're the personification of politeness, then you did bite me last night, and I assure you, I knew who it was." John coughed and sputtered, his cheeks turning red. Sherlock set the tray down and winked at their visitor, making her giggle. He then turned and kissed his friend, cutting off his embarrassment.

"And I'm the one with a lack of professionalism," John teased after they pulled apart.

"Oh she isn't a client," he replied blithely. "John, let me introduce you to my little sister, Lucy Holmes."

"Sister?" John asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. "You never told me you had a sister."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, to be fair, I never actually told you about Mycroft - he just meddles."

Lucyna laughed, stepping forward to join the conversation. "Come now Shelly, you know you like me much better than Mycroft."

He glared at her. "Don't call me that."

"Don't compare me to Mycroft," she countered, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Shelly?" John asked, making an admirable effort to keep himself from laughing.

She nodded. "When I was little I couldn't really pronounce "r" and so I called him "Shelock," which was naturally shortened to Shelly.

"Naturally," he answered, causing Sherlock's glare to deepened. John reached over and took his friends hand to make sure that he knew that it was just a bit of friendly teasing. Not so surprisingly, Sherlock relaxed, feeling slightly less defensive.

"I made tea," Sherlock interjected, hoping to stave off any more embarrassing stories about himself.

John nodded, still smiling. "I can see that; good for you." He paused, examining the tray for a moment before frowning and looking up at his friend. "Sherlock, why are there four cups? There are only three of us."

It was Lucy who answered. "Oh Mémé should be here any minute now."

"Mémé?" John asked, not sure which sibling he should be speaking to.

"Mémé is our paternal grandmother," Lucy clarified.

"Ah," he answered quietly, "and she's coming to visit as well I take it." When Sherlock nodded he sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm still being punished?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not punished. I just wanted you to meet my family; I met yours." John smiled, but before he had the chance to say anything there was a knock at the door. Sherlock darted to the door and opened it, allowing an elderly woman to enter. The woman was tall and slender, like Sherlock, and her gray hair was pulled back into a fashionable bun at the nape of her neck. She was well-dressed in an obviously expensive black pantsuit, and her jewelry, while understated, probably cost a fortune. The detective leaned down and kissed her cheek, letting himself be pulled into a hug.

John stood and offered his hand to his visitor. "Hello, I'm John Watson. It's nice to meet you."

"Branwyn Holmes," she answered, shaking his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. "But you can call me Wynnie, everyone does. I was so happy when Shelly called me; I've been dying to meet you."

He smiled. "Well I'm happy to oblige. Sherlock made tea. I can't promise that it hasn't been poisoned, but if it doesn't kill you it'll probably be very good." Sherlock scowled at him but it didn't have much heat and they all settled in for what turned out to be a rather pleasant tea.

The four went to dinner that night, and afterwards they separated - Wynnie and Lucy going back to their hotel and Sherlock and John returning home to Baker Street. The cab ride was silent, but Sherlock looked pensive and John found it hard to relax. When they got home Sherlock went straight into the kitchen and began looking at blood cultures under the microscope without a word. The doctor bit back a sigh as he began to make tea for the both of them; he knew he just had to be patient and eventually Sherlock would get around to saying whatever it was he needed to say, and John might just get some reading done in the meantime.

At eleven o'clock John decided that he could continue to be patient while sleeping his nice warm bed. He dropped a quick kiss and a 'Goodnight Sherlock, love you' into his lover's unruly curls and smiled at the mumbled 'love you too' he got in response. He still half thought of the bedroom they used as Sherlock's room, but it felt weird to climb the stairs the the smaller, sparser room that was still technically his. So he curled up in the big bed by himself and did his best to steady his breathing. He had just fallen asleep when he was roused by the sound of the door opening and his tall, lanky consulting detective tiptoeing into the room. He blinked lazily, trying to clear at least some of the sleep out of his eyes and watched as his partner stripped efficiently and crawled into bed next to him. John let Sherlock arrange him to his liking (pressed into his side with his head resting on the supposed sociopath's chest, long arms wrapped around him protectively), and was just about to drift off again when his friend finally spoke.

"John," he said quietly. "Did you have a good time tonight?"

"Yeah," John answered, his voice thick with sleep.

"And you got along with Mémé and Lucy?"

"Yeah," he replied. Something in his friend's voice struck him as being off and he frowned. "Wasn't that the point of this whole thing?"

"Of course John. Now go to sleep; you're exhausted," Sherlock answered, tightening his grip on his doctor.

John smiled and dropped a sloppy kiss on the bit of skin nearest his lips. "Sociopath my arse." He fell asleep again to the sound of his partner's rumbling chuckle.

When John woke up the next morning Sherlock was still in bed with him, which was a rare enough occurrence to be considered special; the fact that the man was actually still asleep was practically miraculous. The peace didn't last long, however, and within a few minutes Sherlock's phone was going off. Within fifteen minutes the man had whirled himself out of the flat on the promise of the autopsy of an actual leprosy patient. John, on the other hand, settled in to a quiet day in. A little after noon there was a knock at the door and John found Lucy standing on the doorstep.

He invited her in with a smile. "Sherlock isn't here, sorry."

"I know," she answered cheerfully. "He texted me something about a dead body and leprosy. I came to see you."

John blinked at her a few times in surprise. "Me? Why did you want to see me? And if this is the 'break his heart and they'll never find your body' conversation, then I can assure you that Mycroft has well and truly taken care of it, but if you still feel compelled to threaten me, might I offer you some tea."

"Is tea your answer for everything?" She asked, laughing.

He shrugged. "Pretty much. I find it soothing. Now, how about a cuppa before you go into too much detail about how you'll break my legs."

"I think that I'll leave the cloak and dagger and threatening in Mycroft's very capable hands," she answered happily. "I just wanted to have a bit of a chat about Sherlock. I think there's some things about him that you ought to know, and he probably won't ever tell you."

John nodded, his smile fading slightly. "Right then, we'll definitely be needing that tea." A few minutes later there was a tea tray on the coffee table and Lucy and John were seated in the easy chairs in the front room.

"Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock, who is six years older than me," Lucy began softly, "so he was already gone by the time I came around. Sherlock was there though; he was always there. Our parents have never been the affectionate type, and Sherlock was the only thing that made home bearable. He taught me everything: how to walk, how to talk, how to read and tie my shoes. When I was older he taught me to play the piano and do math and chemistry. He taught me how to ride a bike, and when I was old enough he came home and taught me how to drive. He was my best friend and he has never not been there for me when I needed him; not once. I know that he has done things that he's not proud of - I'm not blind - but he's my big brother, and I still can't help worshiping the ground he walks on just a bit; and even when he was too high to care what happened to himself, he always cared about me; he even got sober for my graduation ceremony.

"Sherlock has always said that I got both our shares of social skills; he used to tease me about it when I was a kid and I came home from school talking about a new friend I had made. Sherlock has never really had friends, or acquaintances really. He was an odd child, to put it lightly, and no one really knew what to do with him. Well I was odd too, but I was better at hiding it then he was. I'm just as smart as my brothers, and we all matured fairly quickly. I always wanted to be a vet, and Sherlock was never one to discourage my scientific curiosity. So, for my ninth birthday he found a dead rabbit in the woods near our house and performed necropsy on it so that I could see how it worked. Unfortunately, our nanny, Anna, noticed that we were missing and came looking for us too early. Sherlock heard her coming and told me to hide. Anna freaked out when she saw him dissecting the animal; she wouldn't believe that he hadn't killed the rabbit himself. She told our parents and they had him sent to a series of psychologists; Mycroft was twenty-two at the time and he came home for a month to help decide what to do with Sherlock.

"The doctors diagnosed Sherlock with sociopathy and Mycroft gained him admittance into Nicholson's School for Troubled Boys. They kept him on a pretty tight leash before he left, but he managed to sneak out the night before they sent him away. He sat me down and explained what a sociopath was and that he had to go away for a while. He also told me that everyone was afraid that he would hurt me, so he wouldn't be able to play any more. I didn't see him again for almost a year, and I spent most of that in therapy because I wouldn't admit that my brother had hurt me.

"John, I can count on one hand how many times I've seen my brother cry - I mean not because he's shamming at being normal - and there are even less times when it was more than just a few tears. I've never seen my brother as wrecked as he was that night, and I was there when he detoxed. It destroyed him that his own family thought that he'd hurt anything - he's always loved animals and he was bullied too much as a kid to take any pleasure in hurting another person - let alone me. Being a teenager isn't particularly easy for anyone, and it was especially difficult for Sherlock. All he wanted was for our family to approve of him, and they never did. And the fact that they wouldn't even let them in their home broke his heart."

John shook his head. "That's awful."

"It was a long time ago," she said with a shrug, "and I didn't tell you all this so that you could pity him. I just thought that it'd help explain why Sherlock is the way he is, and why his relationship with Mycroft is the way it is. I hated Mycroft for a long time for the part he played in what happened, but as I grew up I realized that he was just trying to do the right thing - he just came out on the wrong side of it. But just because I've forgiven my brother, doesn't mean that I will ever ask Sherlock to do the same. This thing between them isn't petty or childish; please don't trivialize it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he answered seriously. "I've always taken Sherlock's side; I'm not going to stop now."

Lucy sighed. "Look, I'm not going to threaten you or any such nonsense. My brother loves you with every piece of the heart he wishes he didn't have. Please be careful with him. I don't want to even imagine what would happen to him if you break his heart; Sherlock doesn't love easy, but he loves very thoroughly when he does. I don't know if he would recover from losing you."

"I'm not going anywhere; I promise," he replied quietly. "That crazy nutter is my whole world, and I know him pretty well; I wouldn't have started this thing if I didn't think it could work."

She smiled brightly at him. "Good. Now, I'm sure you've got some great stories to tell, and I'd love to hear them."

"I may have a few," John said with a smirk.

When Sherlock got back to the flat after observing the autopsy he found John and Lucy in the sitting room laughing like they were old friends. He felt a pang of jealousy at the sight - although he really wasn't sure why. They both turned to face him when he came in, but John's phone went off simultaneously and he went into the other room to answer it, flashing a quick smile at his partner as he left.

"Did you have fun playing with corpses, Shelly my dear?" Lucy asked as she stood up.

"Don't call me Shelly," he said, narrowing his eyes. "And I do not play with corpses."

She leaned up slightly and pecked his cheek. "Sure you don't, Shelly."

"How are you so happy all the time?" He asked, fighting back a smile.

Lucy just grinned at him. "With practice. You should really try it some time."

"I'm fine, thanks," he answered simply.

She just rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. Your John has just been telling me about some of your less legal cases. He's quite the story teller that one." Sherlock's smile finally broke free when she called John his, but before he had the chance to say anything else the man himself came back into the room, his expression serious.

"There's been an accident on the M1," John said, his jaw tense. "It's a huge mess, and they need all the doctor's they can get."

Sherlock frowned. "But you don't work in an A&E."

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "But it's all hands on deck, and I'm a damn good trauma surgeon when I don't have an intermittent tremor. I probably won't be back till late; don't wait up. I love you."

"I love you too," Sherlock answered, leaning down for a kiss before John walked determinedly out of the flat.

Lucy smirked at her brother. "Aww aren't you two so cute and domestic." Sherlock glared at her, but it didn't have much heat and he didn't say anything.

John didn't get home till two the next morning, and by that time he was so exhausted that all he could think about was a shower and then bed. Sherlock was already asleep so he was as quiet as he could be, and by the time he finished showering he was running completely on autopilot. He stumbled into his own room and collapsed into bed, barely managing to get himself under the covers before falling asleep.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, the sheets beside him were cold and it quickly became obvious that John hadn't made it into his bed the night before. After a few moments of blind panic where all Sherlock could think about was everything that could have happened to his friend to keep him out all night (including but not limited to John being mugged, shot, kidnapped, or that he simply hadn't wanted to come home), he managed to get himself together enough to venture out into the rest of the flat in search of more data. He was greatly relieved to find John's shoes by the front door, but was still confused as to why the man hadn't come to bed. Never one to ignore the obvious, the detective went upstairs to check the other bedroom. He found John still sleeping soundly, his arm wrapped tightly around a spare pillow. Sherlock quietly shut the door and retreated downstairs, not wanting to disturb his friend.

While undeniably happy that John had in fact made it home safely, Sherlock couldn't help feeling a bit heartsick that John had seen it necessary to sleep upstairs, alone. His instincts were to burst into John's bedroom and demand to know what was wrong, but John tended to be grumpy when he didn't get enough sleep. So Sherlock lay down on the couch and tried to think of anything he might have done while he waited for his friend to wake up.

At ten thirty Sherlock finally heard the sounds of John getting up and heading into the bathroom. The younger man decided to make tea, hoping that it might at least go a little ways toward helping to make up for whatever it was that he had done. The tea had just finished steeping when John came into the kitchen. He took the mug Sherlock offered him with a smile, closing his eyes as he took his first sip.

"Thank you, love. This is great; just what I needed," he said, smiling up at his friend. Sherlock frowned slightly, confused as to why John didn't seem to be upset. John leaned in for a kiss and Sherlock met him halfway, still frowning and preoccupied. The kiss was perfunctory at best and when he pulled away John was frowning as well.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He asked, trying to make eye contact.

The detective stubbornly looked away, focusing his gaze on the counter top. "You tell me."

"What do you mean?" John pressed, setting his tea down so that he had both hands free; he put one hand on Sherlock's waist and the other on his forearm.

"You slept upstairs last night," Sherlock mumbled. "Which implies that you're unhappy with me."

John sighed. "I'm not unhappy with you Sherlock. I was exhausted. It was closest to the bathroom and I didn't want to fall down the stairs. I was mostly asleep; I'm half surprised that I made it into any bed at all. I was tired; that's it. Nothing is wrong; everything is fine. Alright?"

"Alright," he answered, nodding slowly. He didn't look any less upset though.

The doctor rubbed his friend's arm soothingly. "Hey, what else is bothering you? Talk to me."

"It's nothing," he answered, forcing a smile. He tried to pull away, but John kept hold of his arm.

"It's not nothing," John said calmly. "You're obviously upset. How can I help if you won't talk to me?" Sherlock didn't say anything, but he was obviously thinking about what he should say so John led him over to the couch so that they could sit together.

"Come on, love; tell me what's bothering you." John intertwined their fingers and rubbed his thumb across the back of his friend's hand.

"You really get on well with Lucy, don't you," Sherlock said quietly, looking anywhere but at John.

"Yeah, I do," John said slowly, confused as to what that had to do with their current conversation.

Sherlock sighed, still looking away. "If you had met her before, you would have at least tried to pull her; right?"

"Sherlock," John said carefully. "I wasn't trying to pull your sister. We've talked about this…"

The younger man finally looked at his partner. "I know; I wasn't trying to say that you were. I just meant that you would have, if we weren't us."

"I don't understand," he answered, shaking his head. "If we weren't together there are lots of people I'd probably try to pull."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "You're attractive, friendly, reasonably intelligent; you could go out tonight and have your pick of people."

John shook his head. "But I don't want to go out. I want you."

"I know, and that's one of the single greatest things that has ever happened to me," he replied earnestly. "But that's not the point. The point is that you can get anyone; I can't - I wouldn't want to. You're it for me; I wouldn't want anyone else even if I could get them."

"I still don't understand what's bothering you," he said, squeezing his hand. "I love you and you love me; what does it matter if I would go on the pull if we weren't together and you wouldn't?"

Sherlock sighed. "What if you change your mind? You could walk away and be fine; meet a nice woman, get married, live happily ever after. I wouldn't even be able to try."

"You're wrong," John answered kindly, pulling his friend even closer. "Just because I could find someone doesn't mean I could keep them, and it certainly doesn't mean that I would want to. Do you really think that I could go back to dating just anyone after being with you?" Sherlock shrugged morosely and John continued without forcing him to make a more eloquent answer. "Well I couldn't. You've completely ruined me for every other human being on this planet, and I wouldn't have it any other way. If the idea of you getting bored with me is complete and utter bullshit, then the idea of me changing my mind about you is equally bullocks. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, nodding his head. "Thank you."

John leaned in for a quick kiss before asking, "Is there anything else that's bothering you?"

"No," he replied earnestly.

The doctor smiled widely, relieved that there weren't any other issues he had missed. "Good. Now, will you please let me take you to bed?"

"But you haven't even had breakfast yet," Sherlock protested quietly, his cheeks getting slightly pink. He wasn't sure why the idea of John taking him to bed just then made him so bashful, but he couldn't deny that it did; he supposed it might have been how deliberate it seemed.

He leaned in for another, brief, kiss before smirking. "Is that a problem?"

"I suppose not," he replied, suddenly nervous as well as bashful. "But are you sure that you don't want to at least wait until you have some toast."

The older man stood up, still holding onto his friend's hand, "I'm sure; I have my priorities straight." Sherlock's stomach flipped as he let the other man pull him to his feet, but he didn't say anything as he was led into what was almost their bedroom instead of just his.

John shut the bedroom door with a little too much force, the unexpected bang making Sherlock jump just a little bit. Without any further warning, John shifted his grip from Sherlock's hand to his hips, pushing him against the door and practically attacking his lips. The sound that that forces out of him sounds suspiciously like a whimper and the detective melts against his solid soldier for just a moment before rousing himself enough to wage is own invasion of his partner's mouth. John grinned when Sherlock attached his lips to his neck in a way that the doctor always said reminded him of a leech; he turned his head to capture his friend's earlobe, sucking on it in the way that never failed to make the other man's knees go weak.

While Sherlock's knees were still wobbly, John took the opportunity to manhandle him across the room to the bed. He paused momentarily to pull Sherlock's t-shirt over his head before pushing him roughly onto the bed, bringing forth another whimper from the typically stoic detective. He smiled, watching as Sherlock scooted up the bed so that his head was resting on the pillows, wriggling to get comfortable. John pulled his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside before climbing onto the bed so he could straddle his partner's thighs. Sherlock bucked his hips up into his friend when John leaned down to kiss him, ripping a groan that sounded almost pained from the doctor's throat.

"Shh, relax," John whispered against his lips, pressing against his shoulders. There's a tense moment before Sherlock gives a barely perceptible nod and goes limp, sinking into the mattress. John smiled and kissed him again, soft and lazy now that they weren't battling for anything.

Sherlock rested his arms by his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in the sheets as John continued to snog him sweetly. As much as they loved their normal push and pull, give and take, they did this sometimes; one of them submitting entirely to the other. It was never rough like this and they had never even tried bondage: John was sure that it would send him into a panic attack, if not a full blown flashback, within seconds, and Sherlock thought it sounded boring and dull. Why would he submit to being tied up when John could make him go completely still with just a few whispered words and well placed touches? Besides, it was never about struggling when it was like this, and the idea of taking anything from the other in this situation had absolutely no appeal. Sherlock, who was usual quite (ridiculously in his own opinion) vocal in bed, was almost silent; his only sounds were the audible hitches in his heavy breathing and sighs where all the air left his lungs in a rush.

John was still focusing most of his attention on kissing Sherlock, deliberately keeping it soft and slow while simultaneously managing to gently fuck his mouth with his tongue. He stubbornly kept his hands above Sherlock's waist, but he touched exactly the right places to make Sherlock arch up into him. Sherlock, for his part, kept as still as he could, forcing himself not to thrust against the man above him and he tried his best to keep his breathing as even as possible. He kept his hands by his sides, resisting the urge to grab hold of his friend and pull him closer, and focused as much as his attention as he could on the kiss. John slowed his kisses until they were barely brushing lips, continuing to tease him lightly with his tongue. Finally he pulled away.

"You can touch if you want," John murmured. Sherlock immediately brought his arms up around him, gripping at his shoulders. In response John brought his cotton clad hips down harder against him, finally bringing out a proper moan.

Later Sherlock was on top of John, resting his head on the soldier's chest so that he could listen to his now steady heartbeat. John had one hand in his lover's curls and was using the other to trace meaningless patterns on his still bare back. Sex between the two was fantastic, but neither man would deny that afterwards was their favorite part, when they were both calm and completely content to just be still with one another. They both knew that before long they would have to get up, shower, and find something to eat, but for the time being they were going to move as little as possible.

"You know I wouldn't change anything about you," John said quietly, remembering the conversation that had led them there.

Sherlock smiled and levered himself up so that he could look at his parter properly. "Not even if I could grow a nice pair of breasts?"

"Not even if you could grow a fantastic pair of breasts," he answered, not bothering to hold back his grin. Sherlock grinned as well and leaned down for a kiss even as John started giggling.

* * *

><p>This is the last chapter of 'Firsts'. Thank you all for reading; it's been a pleasure. I've already go the next story of the 'Broken and Twisted' series written; I just need to finish a few edits and then I'll upload it. Thanks again for reading and please review.<p> 


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